


Future's End

by metalloverben



Series: Invisible Ties Series [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Adaptation, Gen, Original Character(s), Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-05 04:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 28
Words: 256,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13380600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metalloverben/pseuds/metalloverben
Summary: Five years after the defeat of the Fell Dragon Grima the world has returned to some semblance of peace, and in this new age Robin trains students to be multi-faceted tacticians like himself. However Grima's taint is not yet gone from this world, as he and his students discover when man's grasp exceeds his reach and Robin is forced back into battle alongside the Shepherds.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, one and all to the sequel to Invisible Ties! Yes, this is a continuation of the story I started with Invisible Ties. Go read that first.   
> This story, Fire Emblem Awakening: Future’s End is a sequel to my earlier work Invisible Ties and the canon I established within that story’s continuity. So this story, too, can be considered AU. Like any good author I’ve striven to make this a stand-alone story; you don’t have to have read Invisible Ties to understand this story, but it will definitely help. I urge you to go read Invisible Ties regardless, though. Read it. If you’ve already read it, read it again.   
> Now that I’ve added OCs to the mix, I also feel it necessary to point out that any and all resemblance that the OC characters or locations bear to any people, alive or dead, is strictly coincidental. I’ve used a random name generator for the ones I’ve come up with, so it’s entirely out of my hands.

The city of Chon’sin on the Western continent of Valm was a strange place to the residents of the Eastern Kingdoms. Many differing customs and a totally different and alien language made for difficulties in travel and trade between the two nations of Chon’sin and Ylisse. Even little things such as the buildings and vegetation were almost totally different, further cementing the feeling of homesickness that the travellers from Ylisse would feel. Buildings of timber and tiled roofs, with thin walls of light plaster and paper within the buildings made for a startling lack of privacy, the Ylisseans complained, and the trees gave little shade. Many small differences made the western nation almost unbearable for long periods of time.

However, the long voyage home across the central sea made many consider simply staying there anyway.

That is what people said, anyway. People always talked, too much in most cases, and all it took as a little attention to pick up on important facts and news.

A young girl wearing a flowing, pale pink robe-like kimono walked along the street overlooking the docks, watching with bored disinterest at the workers below her. Strong men moved cargo while fishermen watched from their places on the wharfs, talking and laughing merrily. The girl found this scene of daily monotony was repeated again and again in her travels. It was loud, it was chaotic, but it was calming and beautiful in a sense.

Mari’ko nodded silently to herself as she turned, scanning the crowd of people on the street going about their daily lives.

She had been told that she had a rather severe bearing, and her mother often parroted that she would be prettier if she smiled more often, but such things were unnecessary. Even the beautiful silken kimono was an extra burden, the carefully woven brocade simply weighing her down.

With a sigh the girl looked down disdainfully at her clothing. One day soon she would trade the ridiculous clothes for the battle-garb of a swordsman; just like the Queen had worn during the war with Valm. Her father had always complimented her on how she looked in a gi before he had died, even if her mother had hated that she had chosen to become a warrior instead of a bride.

She glanced back up as shouts came from the crowd; but rather than the fearful, angered shouts that had been so common in Chon’sin until recently they were cries of adoration and love.

Queen Say’ri strode through the crowd slowly and purposefully, smiling and waving as she led a small procession through the city. Mari’ko felt her pulse quicken slightly; among the usual train of attendants and guards for the Queen, or rather Empress now that many of the smaller nations had pledged their allegiance to her, there was the object of Mari’ko’s search.

A man in a long black duster walked behind her, chatting amicably with a blue-haired woman at his side as another, younger woman with brown hair and a matching duster laughed at his other.

Mari’ko nodded to herself, taking a deep breath as she started to follow them from a distance. She had missed her chance when the previous King, Yen’fay had died, and she’d missed her second chance when the Empress and the man in black had left for the Eastern Kingdoms after the war with Valm…

She would not miss this chance, too.

A cart pulled in front of her, blocking her progress as the Empress and the man in black led the procession around a corner and further back to the Imperial Palace, and Mari’ko hissed a little in frustration. She pushed through the thickening crowd of others trying to get around the cart and jogged a little to catch up. If they made it back to the Palace she would lose her chance, and have to wait for them to emerge again. Mari’ko didn’t want to wait any longer. She had waited for more than two years, and now…

Mari’ko rushed around the corner, hoping to close some of the distance and find an opening. She spotted the procession a little way up the road, not so far that she couldn’t catch up, and-

Strong, callused hands grabbed her by the arm, one shooting up to cover her mouth as she was dragged into the shadows behind a shack selling fresh fish from the market. Her eyes widened as she looked up into the hooded and scarred face of a foreign stranger, framed with scruffy white hair and grinning down at her.

“Hold on a second, kid,” he whispered in perfect, if accented, Chon’sinian. “Show’s about to start.”

Mari’ko looked back to the crowd, eyes widening as a large number of men erupted from the buildings bearing crude weapons and armour as they raced towards the Empress’ procession. The stranger released her, stepping calmly into the street as the pedestrians began to scream and scatter. The men, obviously bandits that had once supported the Imperial Valmese rule judging from their hastily-painted red armour, tore through the Empress’ guard and circled her and the other three.

“For our lives and our Lord Yen’fay, today we take vengeance on his murderer!” one of the bandits shouted to the approval of the other men.

From where Mari’ko was crouched she could see at least thirty men surrounding the Empress and the strangers with her. The white haired man had stopped on the street, calmly watching and waiting for something to happen. The Empress herself stepped forward, and Mari’ko nervously swallowed, loosening her kimono and reaching for the short sword hidden within. The Empress may have been a warrior unmatched, but against numbers like these even she could be undone. Mari’ko would help her, and…

“Fie, foolish man,” the Empress laughed. “I cannot believe you fell so readily for our trap! Now!”

Mari’ko looked up, eyes widening as the form of a large wyvern descended on the bandits, a beautiful woman atop the creature swinging a heavy long-handled axe like it was made of bamboo. Across the street a man appeared atop the inn, taking aim with his bow and firing arrows so fast his hands were a blur. Another blue-haired woman charged from an alleyway opposite the girl’s position, wearing clothes exactly the same as the woman standing next to the Empress. Only this woman had a warrior’s intensity about her, striking with the strength and skill of a veteran as she crashed into the bandits’ rear. Inside the circle of bandits the Empress and the girl in a black coat had begun to fight, the girl swinging around a long, thin nodachi while Empress Say’ri struck with her twin swords.

The white-haired man, though, remained stationary in front of Mari’ko, lazily looking through a thick, handwritten book.

“Argh, where was that spell again?” she heard him mutter in the Eastern tongue. “I miss my sword… Ah! Here it is!”

Mari’ko edged into the street closer to the man as he began to mutter to himself in a strange language, gesturing with one hand in the air towards the bandits. There was a great gale of wind as a green-tinged tornado began to spin around the bandits, throwing most of them off their feet or into the air, only to come crashing back down to the ground. Many of the bandits surrendered after the show of magical superiority, the rest of the Empress’ retinue making quick work of the remaining men that refused to succumb. The white-haired man grinned as he approached the Empress and the crowd of warriors around her, and Mari’ko hesitantly followed him.

“Ah, what nostalgia!” the teal-haired bowman declared as he leapt down from the roof of the inn he was perched on. “Truly, we are still the most magnificent of warriors!”

“Dad!” the brown-haired girl in black cried indignantly as she sheathed the nodachi over her shoulder. “I wanted to get more practice with this stupid sword in!”

“It is not a stupid sword, it is a historical heirloom and a treasure of our family,” the Empress scolded the other girl.

“Yes mo- er, Sis,” the girl sighed, correcting herself.

“Fight faster next time, then,” the white-haired man shrugged, turning to the other two that had fought next to the Empress. “You still alive, ‘Robin’ and ‘Lucina’?”

The woman in blue chuckled a little, pulling her blue hair off and shaking out long, straight black hair. She grinned as she dropped the blue wig, shrugging as she tucked the throwing knives in her hands back into her clothes.

“I’m fine,” she said, before turning to the other man in black. “Are you fine, ‘dear’?”

“Sei’ko, this day has been humiliating enough for me, please stop,” he growled, tearing his own white wig off and throwing it at the ground. “I am the General of this Empire’s armed forces and right-hand of the Empress herself, not some skulking ninja!”

Mari’ko couldn’t stifle a gasp as the full enormity of what she had witnessed sunk in. She forced herself to calm down as she reviewed the facts the way her father had taught her to, the white-haired man turning back to face her as the others noticed her presence.

Firstly, the Empress had clearly set this trap herself, knowing that she would fight. Meaning that the brown haired girl in black was Princess Morgan, and the other man in black was General Kei’ji. She had no idea who either woman in blue was, but both were incredible fighters. They had obviously been bait to lure out the bandits and end a possible rebellion before it started.

But if that was the General, then the man with his hood still drawn must have been…

“Oh, right, hood…” he said, pulling the hood off his face and grinning to her.

“Now,” the famous Grandmaster and tactician Robin said. “What was it you wanted with us?”

* * *

The deserts of Plegia on the Easter Continent were a harsh place; water was scarce and oasis’ were carefully monitored and controlled by the merchant groups that had risen to power after the demise of the country’s monarchy. What few areas of useable soil for farming there was were controlled even more closely, and coveted above all else. These areas were centred mostly towards the south-western corner, close to the coast and the port-city of Misayl, one of the largest trading cities in Plegia after Saiqat to the east and Hutun in the far north, near the Longfort.

Misayl had been one of the first cities to open trade negotiations with Valm and Chon’sin, and many merchants had made themselves incredibly wealthy in the ensuing rush of commerce, the city growing exponentially with their wealth.

A young man, covered in a tan travelling cloak and festooned with bags and pouches for a long journey, sighed as he watched the barely-contained chaos that was the port as a new ship docked, workers already clambering over themselves to unload it. The Ama al-Tha trading company was the first to truly capitalize on the new market, building a colossal trading post at the docks in Misayl, despite being based so far away in Saiqat. The young man frowned as he watched the workers literally carrying heavy crates, rather than take the time to load them on carts. His interest was piqued when he spotted a girl hefting a crate herself, struggling under the weight as she tried to keep pace with the other workers, but lost her quickly in the press of bodies.

“Idiots,” he sighed to himself.

Galle had often been told that he had a bad attitude; he had been called rude, arrogant, and even selfish by the people around him. Yet for all that, he was still one of the more successful members of the Ama al-Tha trading company’s Misayl branch, despite his young age. Mostly because of those qualities.

He was ruthless in making deals, and so often insulted the other parties that work was beginning to become scarce for him.

Being a merchant wasn’t what he wanted to do, anyway. He’d just sort of fallen into this life by chance, and now that he was older he was beginning to get the urge to move on. He wouldn’t be missed by his colleagues; the only other merchants that he even remotely enjoyed being around was the wandering Anna that came and went like a dust-devil on the wind, and only because she had a similar mentality to him, and the Chon’sinian ones that bartered their foreign knowledge for his time. Like their peculiar penchant for fighting unarmed…

He glanced up when he heard footsteps behind him, an older man in long black clerk’s robes smiling down at him from beneath thick, bushy white eyebrows. The Branch Manager, Ibran, was far too soft to hold his position, but Galle had simply held his tongue over the last year. Now that he was leaving he could potentially tell the man exactly what he thought of him; that he was a snivelling coward who was afraid to get his own hands dirty with anything but ink. But why burn bridges?

“Are you sure about leaving?” Ibran asked, his reedy voice like two sheets of paper rubbing together. “You could do much as a member of this company, you know.”

Galle scoffed at that.

“I’m not a merchant,” he said, biting his tongue. “Have you got what I asked for?”

Ibran nodded, producing a rolled up sheet of thicker parchment from his robe and passing it to the boy.

“This was delivered by one of the Annas’ contacts. It is their planned travel route through the desert. It appears they’re heading north.”

Galle nodded, not even looking at the parchment before sliding it into his bag. He trusted the Annas implicitly; after all, he’d paid for a service, and they never disappointed.

“I will ask one last time,” Ibram rasped. “Are you-”

“Don’t bother, my mind is set. But you know, I’ll really miss this place,” Galle deadpanned sarcastically. “I’ll send you a letter or something when I get to Saiqat. Have a good life, Ibran.”

_I always hated you,_ Galle added in his head.

* * *

A little under two weeks later and Galle could honestly say that he’d gotten lost in the desert. Not really something that he wanted to admit, but there came a time, when a man was running out of food and had run out of water the previous day, when he had to admit defeat.

He let out a sigh as he sat in the shade of a small rock formation, squinting at the sky as he waited for the sun to set. Travelling during the day was too taxing on his dwindling supplies, and the moon was full enough to illuminate the night.

Resting his head against the warm rock behind him Galle began to let his mind wander as he waited for the evening.

First and foremost in his mind was the thought that entering the desert at all was a bad idea. Especially to look for such a small group. He’d come across tracks a few times, but getting lost and turned around in the desert was so easy that he really should have known better. He could almost see his father, grinning and shaking his head as he scolded Galle for his impulsiveness.

_“If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times; don’t go into the desert unless you are one-hundred percent on where you’re going. The desert, especially the dunes, do not forgive unprepared travellers, boy.”_

Galle’s Father had been a total survivalist, though; being an officer in Gangrel’s army had meant he was responsible for the lives of his men, after all. He’d served against the Ylisseans during the war and then against the Grimleal with the Ylisseans and… never come home. His mother had disappeared, too, along with more than half of the country’s population. One day she’d been at home with him, caring for the local villagers as their healer and medicine-woman, and the next she’d been gone, leaving Galle to travel north with the survivors to one of the many refugee camps in Regna Ferox, through the desert during the hottest time of the year.

Unlike most of the foreigners seemed to think, tough, the Plegian deserts weren’t an endless sea of sand dunes. It was only really the central area, close to the now-abandoned former capital, that there was really any dunes. Most of the country was arid badlands, full of hardy desert plants and animals that could both survive on little to no water.

Unlike Galle, who was currently dying of thirst.

He chuckled weakly to himself, thinking defeatedly that he would see his parents again soon after all, and closed his eyes.

When he finally opened them again the sun had set, and the desert landscape had come alive in the cooler night time.

Galle let out a low groan as he climbed to his feet, dusting his pants and cloak off as he marvelled at the fact that the vultures and coyotes hadn’t found him. He gave the positions of the stars a brief glance to see just how much time he’d lost from passing out, feeling a small sense of relief when he realised that it wasn’t too late after sunset. With another deep sigh he began to walk back in the direction he’d last found an oasis, deciding to simply call his search a wash.

He’d been hoping to find the group before they’d reached Saiqat, if only because he hadn’t wanted to deal with the Company in the Oasis City, but he would simply look for them there while keeping a low profile.

For now, he simply prioritized putting one foot in front of the other. Once he had water he could focus on finding food. Once he had food, he could begin to travel again.

He trudged through the desert for what felt like an eternity, his mouth feeling parched and ashen as he tried and failed to work some spit up to coat his dry throat. As the first rays of the sun began to crest the horizon Galle let out a final groan, collapsing to his knees before onto his face.

He began to laugh a little, weakly and brokenly.

“Never thought… I’d die… like this…” he managed to whisper to the dirt.

_Oh man, Ibran would never live this down_ , he thought bleakly, continuing to chuckle.

Footsteps approached, but Galle was too exhausted to even roll over to greet whatever reaper had come to collect him. Old, dirty boots stopped in front of his face, the hem of a black robe or coat hanging around them.

_Guess… this is it,_ he thought, closing his eyes again and waiting-

Cool, fresh water began to fall on his head, and Galle let out a cough as he pushed himself onto his back. He blinked, the sun now in his eyes as he tried to look up at the stranger wasting precious water on him. When his vision finally cleared Galle couldn’t help but laugh again.

“I’ve been… looking… for you…” he managed to rasp.

“Yeah, I’ve been getting that a lot lately,” Robin chuckled, squatting down next to the boy. “There are better places to take a nap than in a field, you know. Well, okay, so this is more of a savannah, but…”

* * *

In Ylisstol, the capital city of the Haildom of Ylisse, life went on as usual. Grocers and other merchants made sales to their customers under the watchful eyes of the City Guard, some coming as far as Valm across the sea to buy Ylissean goods; tradesmen shouted orders to their apprentices, some of the slower ones receiving swift kicks to the rear as they contemplated getting out of another day of work; Guards smiled and laughed with the citizens as they went about their daily patrols in the bright morning sunshine.

It was the pinnacle of idyllic life; the people were happy, the kingdom was stable, and the weather was brilliant.

All of this went completely ignored, though, by the two youths racing through the streets of the city’s outer slums.

“Argh, I hate you, Isaac!” one boy shouted desperately, tugging the long yellow scarf he wore down from where it was riding up his neck. “We’re late! We’re so dead!”

“It’s not my fault we’re late!” the other, larger boy panted. “I was up late last night polishing your stupid sword, Van!”

“You’re a blacksmith’s apprentice! It’s what you do!” Van cried.

“Shut up and run!” Isaac groaned.

They raced down the central street, all the way to the military ward by the Ylisstol Palace, and stopped just short of bursting into the sombre parade ground. The Exalt himself was addressing the cadets today, and from the sounds of things he’d already started.

“Oh crap, oh crap,” Isaac muttered, hastily adjusting his ill-fitting uniform.

“Relax, we’ll be fine,” Van mumbled back, carefully positioning his scarf beneath his jacket.

“Yeah, I don’t think Chrom’ll care,” a voice said from behind them. “Better not let Frederick see you, though. You’ll wind up doing star-jumps until the sun sets.”

Both boys jumped, spinning around to face the source of their advice. An average-seeming man stood behind them, smiling from beneath a dark hood. White hair framed his face beneath the hood of his black coat, and Isaac let out a gasp when recognition set in.

“Oh no, we’re so dead,” he moaned. “The Grandmaster himself…”

“What!? Oh no… S-sir, we’re so sorry, mister Grandmaster, sir…” Van stammered.

“Former Grandmaster,” Robin said, leaning closer with a grin. “Now, stand at attention and follow me, boys.”

Van and Isaac exchanged glances as they snapped to attention, the still-grinning hero brushing past them and walking along the periphery of the parade ground.

“… and I have great expectations of all of you, for the future safety and sovereignty of our nation…” Exalt Chrom went on, clearly reciting the speech from memory given his bored monotone.

Van and Isaac both faced directly forward, doing their best to tune out the curious stares from their fellow students and the withering glares from their instructors. Robin led them directly up to Knight-Commander Frederick and his retinue, and Van felt his stomach sink into his boots. He and Isaac would be cleaning latrines for a month this time…

“Frederick, how are you,” Robin nodded, drawing his hood back. “You’re doing a great job with these kids. They took the time to show me the way here, even though it made them late! Guess it’s been too long since I’ve been back to Ylisstol, huh? I gotta say, that’s some seriously knightly behaviour, though. I commend them. Hell, I’d give em a promotion!”

Frederick narrowed his eyes slightly before grunting and nodding. He looked around Robin at the two boys and twitched his head to the side, signalling that they join their unit on the parade ground. Robin turned for a moment, too, to give them both a wink and a grin before turning back to Frederick and the other Knights.

“Have either of you seen Lucina…?” the boys heard the tactician ask before they were out of earshot.

Van and Isaac both let out relieved sighs under their breath as they reached their unit, both exchanging glances and grins before finally paying attention to the rest of Exalt Chrom’s speech.

“One day, we’ll be like them,” Van muttered under his breath so only Isaac could hear. “One day, we’ll be the heroes giving the speeches.”

“And busting the students for being late,” Isaac groaned, eying where the Knight-Commander was still watching them.

* * *

In the Ylissean city-state of Themis it was said that there were districts that never slept. The sprawling limestone metropolis, famed for its stout cavalrymen that had turned the tide in not one but two wars, always had some form of movement, some form of work happening. Things had quietened down recently, since the rebuilding of the city was almost complete, but commerce was forever marching on.

Or so they said, anyway. Arya wasn’t convinced as she rode the Plegian wagon into the city, looking around with wide eyes at the bright, solid limestone buildings. Even at night the city was still bright, so different to the desert cities of Plegia. She had come a long way from Misayl, crossing deserts and mountains to finally be here.

The whole city, and even the country around it, were alien to her. Gently rolling fields, full of lush green grass surrounded the tall, impregnable-seeming walls of the city. The city itself was a shimmering white, and statues of fallen heroes were everywhere along the main colonnade. Arya couldn’t help but think that it would be a grand city in the daylight.

She craned her neck, looking at the quiet streets and catching the eye of a passing City Guard in white mail armour. She glanced down quickly, hiding her face beneath her hood.

_“The Ylisseans are cruel to Plegians,”_ she had been told. _“They will look for any reason to hurt you, to humiliate you. Just for being Plegian. Don’t even make eye-contact.”_

Arya was nervous about being so far away from her homeland, but excited all the same. She’d decided that she needed to know the truth about Grima and the Grimleal, the whole truth from both sides. And to do that she needed to go to Ylisse.

The wagon lurched to a stop and Arya glanced back up, blinking in surprise as a horde of Ylissean men rushed out of the closest building and began to unload the wagon in practiced, smooth motions. She glanced at the wagon’s driver next to her, currently speaking in hushed tones with the old one-eyed man that had come out of the building. The man nodded and looked to Arya, offering her a brief grunt.

“You gonna help the boys or not, kid?” he grumbled. “Get yer arse in gear.”

“Y-yes!” Arya squeaked, jumping off the wagon.

This was clearly the Rommel Trade Centre, the girl realized as she started hefting crates. This was where it had been organized she would work so that she could cross the border as a labourer, rather than a refugee. How long that would last, Arya didn’t know. Hopefully long enough to get the answers she needed.

It didn’t seem to matter to the men working alongside her that she was little more than a child, either. In fact a few of the labourers looked hardly older than she was themselves. The group made short work of the crates, and before long the wagon was off trundling back towards Plegia, leaving Arya alone in Ylisse.

She glanced up at the night sky, wiping sweat from her brow and nodding in satisfaction.

She wouldn’t stop until she understood why so many Plegians, including her family, had died. If that meant she had to labour as an Ylissean worker for a little while, she could handle that.


	2. Chapter 2

Robin bolted into a sitting position, clamping down on the scream about to escape his lips as his long white hair flew about at the movement. The last thing he needed was to wake his daughter or wife again. Breathing heavily the former hero-tactician leaned forward and held his head in both hands, letting out a ragged sigh.

Of course, this behaviour didn’t go unnoticed by the form sleeping at his side.

“The nightmares again?” Lucina asked sleepily, rolling over and propping herself up on one elbow.

Robin nodded, silent for a moment before he realized that they were sitting in the dark.

“Yeah,” he answered, letting himself fall back onto his pillow.

It had been three years now since Grima had died. Three years of struggling to rebuild the world left shattered in the wake of the fell Dragon’s short-lived return. Nearly an entire generation of young men had died during the Plegian Liberation Wars and the Valmese Independence War, and many still looked to the Shepherds for leadership, such as the teenagers and children currently in Robin’s care as he taught them tactics. He’d made off better than some of his friends, though; Chrom and Sumia, Say’ri, Virion and Basilio and Flavia were all world leaders now. Frederick, Cordelia, Libra and Tharja were all sandbagged by their own responsibilities now, too. Robin had managed to dodge almost every responsibility that had been thrown at him, but the dreams still remained.

No matter what he did, he couldn’t escape from the dreams.

“Which one was it this time?” Lucina asked, moving closer and settling onto his chest.

Robin smiled a little at his wife’s half-asleep question. She, too, was still assailed by the occasional nightmare of the future she had escaped from, but it was nothing compared to the ones Robin suffered from. At least twice a week he was waking in a cold sweat, and at least once a month he still woke screaming, even so many years after the fighting had stopped.

He reasoned that dying twice and coming back tended to do that to a man.

“I was falling again,” he said softly, wrapping his arm around Lucina and stroking her hair with his other.

Lucina sighed happily as Robin ran his hand through her long blue hair and down to her shoulders, no doubt already drifting off again.

“It was just a dream,” she reminded him gently.

“I know,” Robin whispered. “Go back to sleep, dear.”

Lucina nodded slightly, the movement little more than a twitch of her head, before her deep, rhythmic breathing signalled she’d drifted off again.

Robin couldn’t help but smirk as he realised he’d been trapped again. He suspected she did this to him on purpose after his nightmares, using him like a pillow. He couldn’t get up without waking her, so it motivated him to try and get back to sleep rather than slink off to his study.

Giving another sigh Robin settled in for another night of staring at the ceiling and stroking Lucina’s soft hair as sleep eluded him.

* * *

The next morning Robin gave a monumental yawn as he shuffled into the small living area in what had once been the fort’s commander’s quarters, shrugging his coat higher up onto his shoulders. It was still early in spring and the winter chill had yet to retreat fully; not that it ever fully retreated this far north, but it had stopped snowing for an entire week, so Robin called that a sure sign that spring was upon them.

He scoffed and grinned a little to himself, shaking his head as he nudged a kettle closer to the fire. He and his school had only been there a few years and already he knew the weather patterns like a local. It was amazing just how fast one caught on to local weather tells once they stopped moving around constantly. This was honestly the longest period of time he could remember that he’d spent in one place, and it was a good feeling. It was nice to feel like he belonged. Not that he didn’t feel that way in Ylisse, but here he’d made his own home, on his own terms, so it was a different feeling.

With another yawn Robin held his hands out over the fire, attempting to warm them from the oppressive chill.

“Rough night, sir?” a familiar voice asked from behind him.

“Yeah,” Robin answered without turning. “I don’t get much sleep anymore. What about you? Getting used to the cold yet?”

A young woman in a plain black tunic stepped around towards the fire, cradling two steaming cups of tea. Her dark tan skin was at odds with the pale complexions of the locals, and her long, straight black hair was pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail. She smiled at Robin as she gave him one of the cups.

“I’m doing just fine, sir,” Robin’s chamberlain, the former Plegian freedom-fighter-turned-Royal-Guard Sahiri, chuckled. “But I think you might want to look at getting more rest. That kettle’s still empty. Here, sir; drink this while I get started on breakfast.”

Robin blinked down at his cup of tea before nudging the empty kettle back away from the fire.

“I knew that,” he muttered lamely as Sahiri laughed, moving to start cooking breakfast.

Robin sunk into one of the chairs at the small wooden table, taking a long sip from the cup; it was a blend of tea that Virion had sent from Rosanne, one that they had drank together whenever they had played chess. Sahiri mysteriously always seemed to know which flavour of tea he wanted on any given morning.

The young Plegian woman was Robin’s, for lack of a better word, Frederick. She was his maid, chamberlain, clerk, school administrator, fort guard captain, and basically anything else he needed doing. Apparently Mustafa had ordered the old Royal Guard Captain Algol to send someone with Robin, even after he’d abdicated his claim to the throne, and Sahiri had jumped at the idea. To make matters worse, she’d even spent a year in Ylisstol while Robin and Lucina had been travelling, training under the surly Knight-Commander of all people on how best to be of service to Robin.

He guessed that her overbearing attitude was the Knight Commander’s way of spiting him for all the years he’d made Frederick’s life hard by ignoring Ylissean social protocol while he’d been the Shepherds’ tactician.

“You know you don’t have to make us breakfast,” Robin said, simply to break the silence.

He knew nothing would come of it, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. Sahiri giggled a little in response as she measured out some oats.

“I know, sir Robin,” the younger woman answered him. “But I like doing it. Plus, if I’m being entirely honest, I make myself a little while I’m up here, too.”

“I knew you had to have an ulterior motive!” Robin declared, standing as he was overcome with his victory.

Lucina chose that point to make her entrance, leading a bleary-eyed young girl by the hand as she chuckled at her husband’s antics.

The little girl was Robin and Lucina’s only child, and all of four years old now, had been given the name Emmeryn in respect to Lucina’s late aunt. They had chosen the name not only out of respect, but also due to the fact that Morgan was Say’ri’s daughter, not Lucina’s; it simply hadn’t felt right to call the child Morgan, too. Her long hair was blue like her mother’s, and matched the Brand of the Exalt that sparkled in her left eye. She looked up at the two other adults in the kitchen and smiled before opening her mouth to give a mighty yawn.

“Good morning, Sahiri,” she said. “What is all the screaming about so early?”

“Sir Robin simply realised something that has eluded him for more than a year,” she answered cryptically, moving to help Emm into her seat.

“And good morning to you, young miss. Your breakfast will be ready in a few minutes,” she added as she lifted the toddler into her higher chair.

“’Mornin Sahiri,” Emm mumbled before letting out a huge yawn.

“Thank you, Sahiri,” Lucina said graciously as she took her seat at the small table. “Won’t you join us?”

Robin’s brow shot up as Sahiri shot him a ‘see what I meant?’ look before giving Lucina a small bow.

“It would be my pleasure, my lady,” the former Royal Guard said.

* * *

After an uneventful breakfast Robin grinned happily as he leaned back against the table, preparing to watch his students piling into the small room he used for his classroom. It had once been the fort’s command centre, and was still occupied by a long and wide wooden table covered in maps and small figures representing units on a battlefield. He’d hung a few tapestries up that Lissa had sent to him; apparently Ylissean officers got given these things when they lead during a successful campaign. The colourful images on them were master-class level work, but they just didn’t fit in with the décor of his office, so he had hung them up in his teaching space to remind the students of the real-world application of what they were learning. One wall was lined entirely with books on tactics, at least five copies of each. Anna had practically salivated when he’d given her the order, but Chrom had insisted on paying for them and a lot of the school’s resources as a ‘wedding gift’ for his daughter. Not that Robin or Anna were complaining, though.

The door opened, snapping Robin back to the present.

The first to enter the room, as always, was the first official student he’d picked up for the school, the Chon’sin noble-born warrior Mari’ko. She had actually petitioned Robin to take her on as his apprentice while he and Lucina had still been honeymooning in Valm. Petitioned might have been putting it lightly, though; pestered incessantly until Robin gave in and sent her ahead of them to Aversa was probably more accurate. Funnily enough, the quietest of his students was also the most stubborn and persistent. Fortunately she had a keen mind and a good grasp of tactics, not to mention the skills with a blade that apparently every single person in Chon’sin was born with, even if her skills with magic were less than perfect. She stopped in the doorway and gave a polite bow in greeting, her long, loose black hair cascading over the shoulder of her pale pink kimono as she did so, before she silently moved to stand at Robin’s side.

“Morning, Mari,” Robin said brightly.

“Good morning, sensei,” was the teenager’s carefully measured reply, before she went right back to standing in silence.

Next into the room was the local boy Rance, his mahogany skin still sheening with perspiration from his morning exercise. Being a native of Regna Ferox obviously meant that the boy was apparently impervious to the cold, meaning he walked around in little more than hide pants and a sleeveless leather vest while the others were forced to layer. Like a lot of the Feroxi Robin had met, Rance bore an uncanny resemblance to Basilio, making him think that the old Khan’s jokes about ‘getting around’ in his youth weren’t as inaccurate as he’d been led to believe.

“Mornin’, teach,” Rance greeted brightly. “You joinin’ us on the training field this arvie?”

“No,” he laughed. “Trust me when I say I’ve already gotten a lifetime of Lucina kicking my arse up and down a training field. The whole reason I started this school was to give her new targets to beat up on. Like… you for instance.”

The two men shared a laugh while Mari’ko poked at one of the cavalry pieces on the table. Once silence settled again Robin watched the doorway expectantly, waiting for his last two students to arrive; before long he could hear the sound of running footsteps, accompanied by the usual cursing and threats.

“Move, damn your sand-loving arse! We’re running late and you’re in my way!”

“Oh, so I should move out of your way and be even later? Yes, that’s a brilliant idea. Why are you not at the top of the class again? Oh, right. You’re an idiot.”

“Oh shut up and- master! Good morning!” a tall, muscular blonde boy said, snapping to attention when he realised Robin was watching the door.

A smaller boy with dark purple hair bordering on black and wearing a familiar mage’s tunic elbowed around the other boy, glaring at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Sorry, master. Isaac overslept and-”

“Galle, shut it!” the blonde boy hissed.

“Enough,” Robin sighed. “Take your places. I’m not punishing you, but I’m telling both Lucina and Aversa not to take it easy on either of you this afternoon.”

Both boys visibly paled as they hurried to take their positions at the table. Robin was no slouch when it came to discipline, but rather than waste his energy on punishing his students he would rather them have the sense beaten into them during their practical skills classes. Rance snickered a little at the outcome, while Mari’ko simply watched on with the same neutral expression she always wore. Nothing ever seemed to phase the girl, no matter how hard Robin or the others tried.

“Right,” Robin said, clapping his hands together. “Who wants to learn about the best way to flank cavalry with infantry and limited support? Too bad, because that’s what we’re covering today.”

“Goody,” Rance muttered under his breath as the students crowded around the table.

* * *

Lucina took a deep breath of the frigid spring air, a small smile rising unbidden to her face as she set up the practice swords for that afternoon’s class. The practice space was just outside the fort’s walls near the woods, where there was plenty of space for whatever weapon or magic was being used could be utilized fully. At Robin’s insistence they had made sure a creek was nearby, too. In case of fire-magic-related mishaps.

Lucina’s smile grew a little as she carried the practice weapons from their box over to the rack.

Five years ago her life had taken a dramatic right-hand turn, and a number of things she never thought would happen actually had; starting, of course, with the defeat of Grima and the establishment of a lasting peace. Now she had a family, a home, and a future with the man she loved. It was mind-boggling that less than a decade ago she didn’t think to even be able to survive as long as she had, let alone fall in love and start a family. She had spent more time smiling in the last few years than she had in her entire life before returning to the past.

And she definitely never would have guessed that she would be teaching swordsmanship to a future generation of young tacticians. But that was her life now, and it was sweeter than anything she had ever known. Not since her childhood had Lucina felt such levels of happiness and contentment.

A sound from behind her made the time-traveller glance up, her whole body tensing up as reflexes honed by a lifetime spent fighting kicked in.

“Peace, man-spawn,” a giant brown rabbit easily as big as a bear said as it stepped out of the woods.

“Hello, Panne,” Lucina said, placing the practice blades on the rack and dusting off her hands. “How does the day find you?”

The giant rabbit sniffed, sitting up on its hind legs and looking at Lucina with deep red eyes. As Lucina watched the rabbit shrunk down to the size of a human, transforming into a woman with long brown hair and matching patches of fur on the backs of her arms and her exposed shoulders. Two long brown rabbit’s ears hung down from the top of her head, and while her eyes had taken on a more human appearance the irises were still the same deep red colour.

“Bored,” the last full-blooded Taguel shape-shifter admitted. “I wish to sit in on your training.”

Lucina grinned, letting out a small chuckle.

“I’m sure the students would love the chance to be pummelled by someone new,” she laughed. “But where are Gaius and Yarne?”

Panne quirked her head, knowing instinctively that the younger woman was talking about her younger son, rather than the time-traveller that had come back from the future with Lucina.

“Yarne is in Ylisse with himself,” Panne said crouching down next to the rack of practice weapons. “He likes the city, and it is good for him to become accustomed to being around the other man-spawn. Gaius is… indisposed.”

Lucina nodded. “Then I welcome your expertise, Lady Panne.”

The Taguel woman sniffed, glancing up at Lucina out of the corner of her eye.

“You persist on that title when we are practically family?” she asked curiously.

Lucina shook her head in response.

“Morgan is not my daughter,” she explained. “And technically, the older Yarne is not your son. However, I merely do it because I know it irks you.”

“You have spent far too much time around Robin,” Panne deadpanned when she saw Lucina’s sheepish smile.

Lucina just laughed, and before either woman could say anything else a dismayed cry went up from the direction of the fort.

“Oh hells no!” Rance groaned loudly. “Not again! Every time the bunny-lady shows up we get our arses handed to us, and I’m sick of the bruises!”

Lucina burst out laughing again as the other two boys in Robin’s advanced class, Galle and Isaac, let out similar groans. The one girl, Mari’ko, didn’t even flinch as she walked over and picked up a practice sword, looking at Lucina expectantly.

“Galle, Isaac, try not to kill each other while you warm up,” Lucina ordered. “Mari’ko, I’d like to work on your footwork a little more today before I start with the boys. Sorry, Rance. Looks like you’re going to be sparring with Panne first.”

The young Feroxi let out another groan as he reached for a second practice weapon, balancing one in each hand.

“Good,” Panne nodded as she sprung to her feet. “He is the heaviest one and flies the furthest.”

“Please tell me she’s joking,” Rance moaned to Lucina.

Panne leaned forward, transforming back into her rabbit form and stepping back towards the forest.

“She’s not joking,” the young Feroxi boy sighed, hefting his wooden weapons. “Just… don’t break anything this time. I’m sick of that healer in town, and I’m pretty sure he’s sick of seeing me.”

* * *

That afternoon, while Lucina was busy beating the stuffing out of Isaac and Galle with wooden practice weapons while Mari’ko and Rance sparred in the background, Robin found himself with nothing to do for a change except wander around the halls of his fort, occasionally watching them from the window. He stopped, snickering to himself a little as Mari’ko dodged to one side and Panne barrelled into Rance while the Chon’sin girl danced out of the Taguel’s path. He wasn’t sure when she had arrived, but he knew that Lucina loved the help with her classes.

Aversa was teaching the third class basic combat magic on the eastern side of the fort, the one that faced the ocean in case someone lit themselves on fire again; Robin had made sure that both practice areas were close to water for that reason alone. Lucina had Robin’s first class, the students closest to graduating in Robin’s opinion, for fencing practice; there wasn’t much more she could teach them, but it still helped to keep their skills sharp. All of which left Sahiri, who had graciously offered to take the second class out into the forest for some survival training. They probably wouldn’t be back until well after nightfall, either.

Meaning that Robin, for the first time in a long time, had nothing better to do than wander around and spend time with his daughter.

“What do you think, honey?” he asked, looking down at the girl walking along next to him. “Feel like going for a stroll into town?”

“I wanna go see Anna!” Emm said excitedly, racing ahead a few steps.

Robin cringed at the thought of dealing with the plucky merchant, but fortunately Emm didn’t see his reaction. She loved to go and see the energetic woman that always doted on her, even if it meant Robin had to spend a lot of money on whatever cockamamie merchandise Anna was peddling at the time. Last time he had braved Anna’s shop he’d wound up paying for a share of her cousin’s merchant route out to the eastern shore, peddling merchandise along the way, and he really, really didn’t want to get dragged into more business with the Anna family.

“I didn’t want to go that far into town today…” Robin began to groan.

Emm spun to look back at her father, and as soon as Robin saw her smile any resistance he had to her idea instantly dissipated.

“Alright, let’s go see Anna,” Robin sighed, pushing the hair out of his face.

He would never admit it, but Robin was defenceless against his daughter’s smile. It was the same one Lucina got very, very occasionally, which meant he had yet to build up a resistance, and his carefree child could use it all the time to get whatever she wanted.

“Yay!” Emm cheered, grabbing onto Robin’s hand and beginning to drag him towards the fort’s gates.

* * *

The marketplace in Nauta was right on the docks, literally the furthest point in the town from Robin’s fort in the woods. The small fishing town was one of the oldest in Regna Ferox, right on the north-eastern tip of a small spit. Apparently a lot of whaling had gone on earlier in the town’s existence, but for some strange reason the locals had switched to more traditional fishing instead. However, in the two years since Robin had made his home and started his school in the town there had been a rapid increase in people moving to the area, not to mention the construction around the town to accommodate all the new arrivals. Anna had said something about him being good for a local economy since people trusted him, but he was still a little weirded out by it.

Like always the marketplace was bustling with people; dockworkers and sailors, fishermen and other tradesmen all going about their business while merchants tried to hock their wares. He exchanged greetings with a few familiar faces as Emm attempted to pull him along, the girl giving up after a few steps and dashing off ahead.

Robin found himself grateful for the fact that at least it was a nice day out, blue skies above with just a hint of winter’s chill still on the wind. Emm seemed happy with the change, at least, running and spinning happily in her winter clothes with her arms outstretched as the wind blew through her blue hair. Robin found himself grinning, his daughter’s good cheer contagious.

“Dad, c’mon!” Emm pouted, crossing her arms and glowering at the slower man.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Robin assured her. “I just… need a chance to mentally prepare myself…”

The little girl disappeared into one of the storefronts, and as Robin stepped onto the small wooden step and pushed the door open his ears were assaulted by a familiar squeal.

“Emmy!” Anna cried happily as she lifted the smaller girl into a giant hug, her voice so shrill it made Robin wince.

“Miss Anna!” Emm responded, returning the hug.

“Morning, Anna. And no, I did not bring my wallet,” Robin greeted, closing the shop’s door behind him.

“Liar,” Anna snorted. “I can hear you jingling from here.”

Robin grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. “Just… be gentle.”

Anna winked, plopping Emm down on the countertop and holding her index finger to her cheek in her signature pose. In fact, she was still wearing the same red and yellow travel clothes she always did, too. In fact she hadn’t aged at all in the last five years.

“Oh Robin, you know I’m always gentle,” she practically purred.

“I’m telling Lucina,” he deadpanned in response, crossing his arms and sinking to a hip.

Anna blinked a few times before laughing nervously. Lucina was, unsurprisingly, a little territorial when it came to Robin, something that Anna and Tharja had both learned early into their married life, much to Robin’s great amusement at the time. Anna’s chronic flirting made dealing with her that much easier.

“Discount?” the merchant said, smiling weakly.

“That’s more like it,” the tactician laughed, clapping his hands together.

“Yay!” Emm said, clapping in emulation of her father.

“Yay,” Anna repeated with much less enthusiasm as she lifted Emm down to the ground.

“I’ve got some new inventory in the green-marked boxes out the back I think you might like,” she added to the little girl. “If you find something nice I’ll teach you how to haggle while your daddy pays for it.”

“Kay!” Emm said, darting off like a shot.

Robin shook his head and chuckled, moving to lean against the countertop.

Anna’s shop was a general store; there were all kinds of things, from preserved foods to hardware supplies and clothes. All of it was laid out on the first floor of the building, with a small flat above it for the self-proclaimed ‘merchant queen’s’ quarters.

“So… while you’re here…” Anna said, sidling up to Robin with her abacus already in hand.

“Yeah, yeah, just take it,” Robin groaned, plopping his small coin purse down on the countertop. 

He did need to look into ordering a few things anyway… even if Anna was the merchant equivalent of a shark in bloody water at this point.

* * *

“So how’s business?” Robin asked idly almost an hour later.

They had been doing some serious ‘negotiating’ for the supplies Robin wanted, and while his wallet wasn’t quite as empty as he’d been expecting it was still far lighter than when he’d come into the store. Anna was just running the last of her numbers now, triple checking her work so that neither she nor Robin would be out of pocket. Robin hated to admit it, but at least Anna was a trustworthy merchant.

The red-headed woman mumbled something incoherent, adding up numbers and doing math in her head at the same speed Robin came up with tactical responses.

“It’s good,” she said at last, tapping one final bead across her little abacus before setting it down. “Like I said, you do wonders for a town. More and more people are moving here, and I’m perfectly set up here on the edge of the market to cater to everyone! I knew following you around for so long would pay off in spades! I’m thinking of getting an addition done out back, making my living space a little bigger.”

“You’d just fill it with more stock…” Robin chuckled.

He was going to say more about her insane hoarding habits, but he trailed off when he saw the group of armed guards walking through the marketplace. Which was strange, considering that Nauta only had a volunteer civilian militia rather than a dedicated platoon of town guards.

“What’s going on?” Anna asked, instantly pulling two daggers out from beneath her counter and handing one to Robin.

“I dunno,” he muttered, before shouting over his shoulder, “Emm honey, I need you to stay in that back room until I come get you, okay?”

“Kay!” was his daughter’s immediate response.

Apparently she had found something really interesting back there. She hadn’t been out to bug Anna or Robin since she’d disappeared.

The two Shepherds crossed the store, stepping out onto the street without even a hint of hesitation. Robin wasn’t training the way he used to, but he didn’t doubt he could take all of these guys with one hand tied behind his back. Anna was no slouch, either, so he knew they’d be fine.

“Gentlemen!” Robin called out to the soldiers. “What seems to be the problem?”

As one the soldiers, all Feroxi men Robin noted, turned to look back at the two foreigners stepping into the street behind them. There was a tense moment of silence as they eyed off, before it was broken by a familiar voice.

“Robin!” a woman called out. “I’ve been looking everywhere for- gah, dammit, get out of my way!”

Pushing to the front of the soldiers was an older woman in red and silver armour, her tan skin at odds with her messy blonde hair. A massive two-handed sword was strapped to her back, its golden blade glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

“Flavia?” Robin asked, lowering his guard. “What’s wrong? And why do you still have Ragnell?”

“Later,” the reigning Khan said brusquely. “I need to talk to you now. And it’s important.”

Flavia looked flustered to Robin, which was a rare sight indeed. Outwardly she looked the same as always, but her shoulders were tense and her posture stiff, and she wasn’t smiling her usual confident grin. Something was very wrong.

“Okay, okay,” Robin said, turning back to Anna’s store. “Just let me get Emm and we can… uh…”

He stopped, Anna and Flavia behind him staring at the spectacle on the merchant’s doorstep. Emm was looking up at them from beneath the rim of a leather skull cap at least twice her size, cradling a large morning-star in her arms so heavy it looked like she was about to collapse beneath it.

“Daddy I want these ones,” she said to the stunned adults.

Flavia burst out laughing, slapping Robin on the back before doubling over and holding her sides; a few of the closer Feroxi guards were chuckling along, too. Anna just laughed nervously, bending down to take the morning-star from the child.

“I thought I put the weapons in the red-marked crates…” she muttered, holding the mace and grinning guiltily at Robin.

“Well, she’s definitely her mother’s daughter,” Robin sighed, bending down to pick the small child up.

“You can have a mace when you’re older,” he told her. “But… you can keep the helmet.”

“At cost,” Anna pitched in.

“Yay!” Emm cheered, throwing her arms up as the helmet wobbled on her head.

* * *

Robin sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking down at the table in his office. Beside him Lucina was standing with one hand cupping her chin, the other supporting her elbow as she thought about their predicament. Across from them Aversa looked similarly perturbed, but held back on her usual sarcasm as Flavia, in the chair next to her, looked fit to burst. Anna just watched the proceedings from the back of the room, Emm sitting comfortably on her lap completely oblivious to the tense atmosphere, still fiddling with her oversized helmet. Sahiri was out keeping the students busy, so Robin would have to catch her up on events later.

“The whole town?” Robin asked again.

Flavia grunted and nodded, crossing her arms.

“The bastards came in, killed the guard and took over,” she spat. “It’s in my territory, so the oaf doesn’t want to send any of his warriors to help. Which is fine anyway, because I’ve got plenty of bodies, but…”

“Then why come to us?” Lucina asked at last.

“I have a guess,” Aversa drawled, rolling her eyes.

“I can’t lead every squad at once,” Flavia admitted sourly. “We’re still trying to rebuild the clan armies. There’s just not enough officers left to go around. I was hoping a few of your kids were ready for some field experience.”

A sizeable army of bandits had moved from the south, burning villages before assaulting and taking over the logging city of Silva in one night. The city guards were all dead, and Flavia was chomping at the bit to retake her city. A lot of lumber, one of the main sources of income for Eastern Regna Ferox, came from Silva, not to mention the fact that bandit attacks like this had become much more common in the unrest during the whole Valm Liberation Campaign. Army deserters and criminals always made the trek north to the unforgiving forests of Regna Ferox, where the southern nations had no authority. Most became bandits, returning to their home nations as plunderers and ending up arrested and executed anyway, but a few remained in Regna Ferox to cause trouble. Trouble that Robin’s students weren’t ready to deal with yet.

“Absolutely not,” Robin said without a second thought about Flavia’s request. “They’re good, and some of them have seen combat, but they’re not ready for command yet. I understand this is a problem, Flavia, but these kids aren’t soldiers. They’re tacticians.”

The Khan twitched, leaning forward to glare at the tactician.

“You understand?” she growled. “My people are dying, Robin! For Naga’s sake, I grew up in that town! Don’t you dare try to tell me you understand!”

“Alright, poor choice of words,” Robin said calmingly. “Look, I didn’t say we wouldn’t help, I just said that the kids weren’t ready for command yet.”

“So…” Flavia prompted.

“I’ll admit my students need actual field experience,” Robin explained, standing up. “Therefore I’ll bring my advanced class with me and advise your army myself. Objections?”

“None,” Flavia said with a predatory grin, her mood doing a full one-eighty. “That’s far better than I was hoping for, honestly.”

“We’ll advise your army,” Lucina amended her husband, placing one hand on his shoulder.

Robin glanced up to her, and she gave a confident nod. She had that look in her eye that Robin knew better than to argue with, so he simply shrugged and grinned back at Flavia.

“Right, well, you have fun with that,” Aversa sighed lazily. “I’ll keep your seat warm until you get back…”

“Oh, you’re coming, too,” Robin added as an afterthought.

“Oh joy,” Aversa groaned, rolling her eyes. “How did I know you would say that?”

“I’m in, too!” Anna volunteered from the back of the room.

“Me too!” Emm piped up.

“I think you’re a bit young yet, squirt,” Flavia laughed over her shoulder. “But I like your enthusiasm.”

Robin grinned wider, stretching out his neck as he reached back for the rapier sitting on the sideboard beneath his window. It was a beautiful sword, similar to the one Chrom had given him when they had first met, but of an even higher quality. Its deep blue scabbard matched Lucina’s hair, no doubt done on purpose by her father, and just beneath where the hilt sat on it the Mark of Naga, the symbol of House Ylisse, was carved.

“Emm honey, you stay here and watch the fort,” he said as he strapped the weapon to his hip. “Keep Sahiri and the others out of trouble, okay?”

“Okay,” the girl mumbled dejectedly before perking back up. “That means I’m in charge, right?”

“You and Sahiri share the top spot,” Robin said with a grin. “But not my office.”

Lucina walked over and took the girl from Anna, lifting her up and holding her.

“Why don’t we go and find Sahiri to tell her that you’ll both be in charge?” the blue-haired woman said as her daughter smiled happily.

“Sure!” Emm agreed.

The mother and daughter duo left the room, Anna practically swooning at what she obviously found to be an adorable display.

“She’s such a well behaved child!” the merchant crowed. “I want one!”

“Make your own, then,” Robin scoffed, crossing his arms and sinking to a hip. “Besides, it’s an act. She’s too smart for her own damn good.”

“Yes, especially considering the toddler outsmarts the hero-tactician on a daily basis,” Aversa drawled.

Flavia burst out laughing at this information, Anna trying and failing not to do the same. Robin cast a withering glare at his sister, who gave an innocent shrug before grinning into the corner, trying to hide it by facing away from him.

“Yeah, yeah, real funny. Everyone get your things together,” Robin said irritatedly. “Flavia, we’ll meet you at Silva. Do not, under any circumstances, assault the city until we meet you there. Understood?”

“Aye, commander,” the Khan said with a sarcastic salute.

“Aversa, I want you to meet Anna at her shop and travel with her. Lucina’s going to join you, too. Get to the city first and start organizing Flavia’s troops. I’ll come after with the students once you have a handle on things.”

“Right, right,” Aversa groaned. “Make us do all the work.”

“I don’t mind a little work,” Anna said excitedly.

“But it’s gonna cost you,” she added with another wink at Robin.

“Doesn’t it always?” he sighed, sinking back into his chair. “You all have your roles. Go on. I have some lesson plans to write up for Sahiri before I leave.”

The three women left the room quickly after that, already switching into work-mode as they discussed the journey to Silva. Now that he was alone Robin let out a sigh, massaging his temples and wishing to Naga that Chrom could be here with him. With deft movements Robin pulled the back-up lesson plans he kept on hand for just such an occasion out of his desk and sat them on top of his table.

“I assume you got all that?” he asked the empty office after a moment.

“’Course I did, Bubbles,” came the reply from the shadow of one of Robin’s great bookshelves. “That Khan speaks pretty damn loud. I’d be surprised if Panne hadn’t heard her outside, too.”

A thin, lanky man with ginger hair stepped into the light streaming in from Robin’s window, his sleeveless dark leathers and pale flesh covered by a thick travelling cloak. Gaius gave Robin a reassuring grin as he leaned against the teacher’s desk lazily, letting out a theatrical sigh.

Since Grima’s defeat Gaius had gone back to a life of barely-legal work, something that Chrom and Robin both pretended not to notice. In fact Robin knew that Gaius made his hideout in Nauta somewhere with his wife Panne, if only because Panne spent a lot of time helping Lucina with the tactician-students’ physical training. The tactician pretended not to notice the sheer amount of stolen goods in the marketplace, too, mostly because the trade-off of the duo often working as his eyes and ears when something happened in the world was totally worth it. Say’ri and Morgan had Seiko and her network of spies. Chrom had Frederick running an official intelligence network now with the previous Knight-Commander, the retired Cullen, as its head. Robin had the sugar-addicted pseudo-thief and the Taguel’s web of contacts.

“Then I assume you already know what I’m about to ask you to do?” Robin asked, emulating the man’s grin as he rose out of his chair.

“Something stupid, no doubt?” Gaius sighed.

“Yeah, but we both know you love stupid,” Robin chuckled, giving the thief a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I want you to get there ahead of the girls and case the town. Find where the bandits are hiding, try and get some resistance happening; they’re Feroxi, so it won’t be hard to rile them up. But I need intel above all else. Think you can handle it?”

“You know what I want to hear,” Gaius said expectantly.

Robin sighed, stepping back from the other man and running a hand through his hair.

“I’ll tell Lucina to make a batch of those honey-cakes before we leave,” he said, feigning defeat.

“That’s more like it,” Gaius clapped, hopping off Robin’s desk and walking to the door. “Maybe you should’a stuck with politics, Bubbles. You sure know how to motivate people.”

Robin just laughed and shook his head as the occasional-thief-occasional-spy slipped out of his office, leaving only a faint aroma of sugar in his wake.

* * *

“Didja hear the rumours?” Rance asked excitedly, wincing as he eased himself into an armchair. “Bandits in the east- argh, damn that bunny-woman!”

“Man, she kicks your butt every time,” Isaac snickered across from him.

Opposite the two boys Mari’ko sat, silently drinking her customary evening tea and listening intently to the conversation.

The three students were sitting in the small common room they shared; a converted officer’s space that had once housed the fort’s junior officer staff at some point back when Ylisse had occupied that part of Regna Ferox. A small fireplace crackled in one corner, and four armchairs were arranged facing one another around a low table that the students could study or relax at.

“That’s not the point,” Rance said, leaning forward. “We’re talking our first real mission, here!”

“You should not be so quick to seek violence,” Mari’ko said in a soft voice, possibly speaking for the first time that day.

“She spoke!” Isaac gasped, Rance guffawing along with the boy as Mari’ko rolled her eyes.

She was always quiet; at first the three boys had thought that she couldn’t understand them and there was a language barrier, but after a while they realised that she only spoke when necessary. No matter how often Rance hit on her.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, anyway,” Galle said, walking shirtless out of his room as he dried his hair. “We’re probably just going to be watching.”

Rance huffed, leaning back in his chair and wincing again with a swift local curse as the Plegian boy stood near the fire.

“Ah! You know for a Plegian, you’re pretty pale,” the Feroxi pointed out with a grin.

“And for a Feroxi you’re especially stupid,” Galle replied without skipping a beat.

“C’mon guys, let’s not fight,” Isaac sighed. “For a change, anyway. We’re shipping out tomorrow, save the negativity for the bandits.”

Mari’ko nodded slowly before taking another sip from her tea. Galle rolled his eyes, frowning and letting his towel rest around his shoulders.

“Aw, I’m only playin’,” Rance snickered, before growing serious again. “But do you think we’ll actually, you know, be on the front lines?”

“One track mind,” Galle muttered, rolling his eyes again.

“A tactician leads from the front where they can adapt strategies as needed,” Mari’ko quoted softly, placing her now empty cup on the table.

“I’d take that as a yes,” Isaac said, breaking into a grin. “I’m actually kinda excited, too. Nervous, but excited. Wasn’t Morgan our age when she joined the Shepherds?”

“Yup,” Rance sighed. “She got the one-on-one experience with Robin. Maybe that’s what I need? A little one-on-one time.”

“What, with Robin?” Isaac asked curiously.

“No, with Morgan!” Rance said excitedly. “She’s a fine lady! I’d love to get a little one-on-one time with her, if you catch my meaning!”

Galle and Isaac both groaned and rolled their eyes. Mari’ko sighed, the motion little more than the act of exhaling on her, before she gracefully rose to her feet and cast a glare down at Rance.

“Rance no baka,” she said before spinning on her heel and disappearing into her room.

“What did she just call me?” the Feroxi boy asked, raising one eyebrow as he watched the girl leave.

“I think the called you… baked?” Isaac guessed, scratching his head.

“She called you an idiot,” Galle said, prodding Rance in the side of the head before turning to Isaac. “And you’re not much better. Both of you get some sleep, we have to be up early tomorrow.”

With that the Plegian boy turned and returned to his own room, now sufficiently dry after standing next to the fire.

“Who died and put you in charge?” Rance called after the other boy.

Isaac shook his head, reaching for the communal chess-board they all shared. Robin insisted that playing chess would help their tactics, but all it really did was help Isaac’s self-esteem when he beat Rance every night they played.

“Fancy a game?” Isaac asked innocently.

“Fancy a chess-board shoved up your arse?” Rance growled, raising one brow.

“I’ll wager my rations at tomorrow’s camp,” Isaac prompted.

Rance stared at the Ylissean boy for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly before he blew a breath out his nose.

“Fine. But I’m playing white this time.”

* * *

Robin stood at his window that evening, leaning with one arm against the frame and looking out over the dark forest. The moon was hidden by clouds, making the night outside of the lights of the fort almost impenetrable. A small shiver went up his spine as it brought to mind memories of the last time he was enveloped in darkness…

The sound of small shuffling feet made Robin glance up from the window as Emm wandered into the room, freshly bathed and ready for bed.

“Daddy?” Emm asked sleepily. “What’cha looking at?”

“Just the forest, honey,” Robin said softly.

Right now Lucina would be bathing herself after helping their daughter wash, so he would need to distract her for a little while. Emm nodded, wandering over to the window and standing on her toes to look out of it with him. They stood there silently watching the forest swaying in the night breeze, Robin crossing his arms and leaning with his back against the window frame while Emm rested her chin on the sill.

“It’s spooky,” she said eventually.

“What’s spooky about it?” Robin asked.

“The dark,” Emm replied. “It scares me.”

Robin smiled and placed his hand on Emm’s head.

“It’s nothing to be scared of,” he explained. “There’s nothing out there in the night that isn’t there during the day.”

Emm stepped back from the window, looking up at her father and shaking her head.

“I like the night. I’m scared of the dark.”

Robin raised an eyebrow before crouching down to his daughter’s level.

“What do you mean, honey?” he asked softly.

Emm looked down before she held her hands up in a sort of bowl-shape. Robin had seen her do this before while Aversa had been teaching the toddler the earliest forms of mana manipulation. She could make a few sparks or embers already, even blow a few breezes. It was impressive, but not unheard of for gifted mages to start so young.

But much to Robin’s surprise a small wisp of purple smoke flared to life between the girl’s hands. Her face scrunched up as she focused for a few seconds before the dark magic flickered and lashed out, snapping at her fingers. With a yelp she drew her hands back and the spell blinked out.

“See?” she asked, looking up at Robin with teary eyes.

He nodded, pulling her close into a comforting hug and rubbing her back.

“Aw, is that why you don’t like the dark?” he asked.

Emm sniffled and nodded into his chest.

“Well that’s because Dark Magic isn’t something to be playing with,” he told her. “How long have you been able to do that?”

“I dunno,” she said sulkily. “… it’s easier than nature magic.”

“It is for me, too,” Robin explained. “But it’s not without its cost. I’ll let Auntie Tharja explain it properly next time we go to visit, but until then you have to promise not to use it, okay?”

Emm nodded again.

“I promise. But… what about Auntie Aversa?” she asked. “She’s a sorcer… sorcer…ess too, right?”

Robin couldn’t help but smile as his daughter tried to wrap her mouth around the difficult word.

“She is,” he said. “But I’d rather you learn it from Auntie Tharja. When you’re old enough I’ll even send you to her school for a few months to learn it properly if you want.”

Emm nodded, thinking carefully.

“So all I have to do is not use it for now?” she asked.

“Yup,” Robin said, ruffling her hair a little. “That’s it. Do nothing and you’ll be fine. Just stick to helping Sahiri while your mother and I are gone and forget about Dark Magic until you’re older.”

“Kay,” Emm said, her smile returning.

“Now why don’t we surprise your mother by getting you into bed before she comes back from her bath?” Robin asked, grinning a little as he rose to his feet.

“Kay,” Emm said, hopping a little. “But you have to read a story first!”

“Alright, alright,” Robin conceded, leading his daughter to her room. “What do you want tonight? Wyvern Wars or…”

“A Beginner’s Guide to Tactics!” Emm said excitedly.

Robin stopped for a moment before smiling down to his daughter.

“Okay, A Beginner’s Guide to Tactics it is!”

* * *

“Emm’s starting to realize she can cast Dark Magic,” Robin said without preamble as he stepped into his and Lucina’s bedroom later.

Lucina looked up with a shocked expression from where she was brushing her hair on the edge of the bed.

“Is she okay?” she asked, standing and tossing her brush aside.

“She’s fine,” Robin said soothingly. “I explained to her that she shouldn’t use it until Tharja teaches her how to do it properly, and she promised she wouldn’t.”

Lucina let out a breath, sitting back down on the edge of the bed.

“Good,” she said. “I’d honestly prefer she not learn it at all, though.”

Robin grinned sadly, running a hand through his hair and over behind his left ear. The skin was blackened and cracked under the hair behind his ear, a side-effect of over-use of Dark Magic. Tharja and Henry both had it, too; Tharja on her back near her right shoulder and Henry around the scars that the Deadlord Simia had left on him. It was the price all combat Dark Mages eventually paid, consumed by the very magics they wielded. Fortunately, though, Morgan and Noire had been thus far spared the disfigurement that came with using Dark Magic for extended periods.

“I know,” Robin sighed, moving and settling down on the bed next to his wife. “But she’s a curious girl. She’s going to do it anyway, so we may as well make sure she gets the best training possible so that nothing goes wrong. The last thing we need is for her to lose a finger or something playing with forces she doesn’t understand.”

Lucina nodded, leaning over to the side and resting her head on Robin’s shoulder.

“She’s my daughter, after all,” he added. “And we’ve both seen how good Morgan is with Dark Magic. We knew this would happen eventually.”

“But it’s so soon,” Lucina sighed.

They sat there in silence for a few moments, winding down from the day and basking in each other’s company before Robin chuckled a little. Lucina glanced up to him curiously, only making him smile more.

“I just spent half an hour reading Emm the introduction to A Beginner’s Guide to Tactics,” he said by way of explanation.

Lucina let out a small laugh, standing and retrieving her brush.

“Well, she is your daughter,” she repeated before giving him an expectant look. “Now, are you going to brush your own hair or…?”

Robin winced, hands automatically going to cover his shoulder-length white hair.

“Woman, keep that death-machine away from me,” he said, scooting further along the bed.

“Do we really have to do this every night?” Lucina asked exasperatedly. “We have to be up early tomorrow to march. We don’t have time for this. Brush it or cut it.”

“I choose death!” Robin declared.

“I can arrange that,” Lucina deadpanned, glaring at Robin and holding out the brush.

Robin shook his head, crossing his arms and taking on the same tone his daughter used when she was being difficult.

“Make me,” he pouted, sticking his tongue out at Lucina.

* * *

Aversa resisted the urge to sigh as she moved towards the suite Robin and his family used, shuffling through the papers and reports that Flavia had had delivered. The Khan was right that she had plenty of soldiers, but had managed to omit the part about having literally no command structure for her forces.

Usually Aversa would have had no problem organising troop rosters and squad divisions, but she had only done such for the Plegian army. Regna Ferox was known as a more… free-spirited nation, and she didn’t want to put the effort in only to have it go to waste.

Which was how she found herself slinking into her brother’s suite to ask him a few questions regarding the usual Feroxi army organisational method.

She crossed the sitting room that branched off into the two bedrooms and the bathroom, noticing with satisfaction that the fireplace was still warm, so Robin wouldn’t have been long retired. She would just poke her head into his room, ask a few questions and…

“Get off me, demon-woman! Stop! Stop before you tear my head off!”

“Oh shut up before you wake Emm!”

“Help! Help! Somebody-ARGH!”

Aversa blinked, wondering what kind of depravity her brother and his wife were getting up to as she nudged the door open.

Robin and Lucina looked up like startled deer, clad in their pyjamas and flushed from exertions. Lucina was straddling Robin, the tactician trying desperately to keep her hands off of his head, a hairbrush hanging off his head in his dishevelled hair.

“Sis, save me!” Robin cried, desperately trying to wriggle out from under his wife.

“I don’t even want to know,” Aversa said, pivoting and closing the door before she left the suite.

“No! Don’t leave me!” he cried after her.

“You’re worse than a child!” Lucina practically shouted. “Just let me brush your hair!”

“Nooooooooooooooo!” Robin shouted, his cry echoing through the fort and into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to state, for the record, that I had never heard of the ‘Rance’ games before I named the character in this story. I actually worked with a guy named Rance, and he was a nice guy, so I decided to name a character after him in this story.


	3. Chapter 3

In the forests of Regna Ferox time seemingly passed in its own fashion, unbeknownst to mankind. The rivers and trees followed the cycle of the seasons, not the whims of man and his calendars. Ancient trees knew not the world of man, standing strong and stalwart against Mother Nature as she assailed them with-

“Owain! W-what are y-you doing?”

In the forests of Regna Ferox a short-haired blonde boy glanced up with a frown, his interior monologue interrupted. He sat in a small campsite in the shade of an old oak tree, which had prompted his thoughts down their current path, a single tent sitting beside the fire he was currently huddled against the chill next to.

Owain’s momentary flash of childish irritation passed though, his face breaking into a great smile as his fated companion walked into the campsite through the trees, shivering and drying her long red hair with a towel.

“Gawd-ds it’s f-freezing!” Severa complained loudly, sitting down on the log next to Owain.

She scooted closer to him, pressing herself up against him to share their meagre warmth.

“Er… I get that you don’t like to smell bad, Severa, but bathing in rivers in this temperature is just…” Owain said hesitantly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Severa was a vain woman that took a great amount of pride in her appearance; which Owain didn’t usually mind, but when she was taking a bath in half-frozen meltwater for the sake of beauty he drew the line.

“Sh-shut up,” Severa grunted, wrapping her towel around her hair and pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “I didn’t… didn’t actually get in the w-water. I just… needed to w-wash my hair. It’s your fault for getting us lost again anyway!”

Owain couldn’t help but smirk at his companion’s fiery tone; her tongue may have been sharp, but beneath her barbed words lay a loving and caring woman.

“I know,” he sighed apologetically, rubbing Severa’s opposite shoulder to spread a little more warmth.

They had set out together from Ylisstol nearly three years ago now. Owain had declared it a journey to ‘stay his sword hand’, and Severa had begrudgingly decided to tag along with her lover, but that had only been a front. They had tried to settle down, join the Ylissean City Guard and even remain as Shepherds, but nothing had felt right.

This wasn’t their timeline, and as hard as they had tried to make it so, it just wasn’t their home.

However as far as Owain was concerned anywhere Severa went was his home, so it didn’t bother him as much, but he worried that his companion might long for more stability, for a place they could call their own. While they travelled, righting wrongs all over the world, Owain was paying close attention looking for such a place for her.

“L-let me see the map,” Severa demanded, her cold-induced stutter beginning to fade slightly.

“Not until you finish warming up,” Owain chided. “If my fated companion dies of frost-bite who will sing of my glory when we finally get to Silva and rescue the townspeople?”

Severa’s face went instantly red as she glared up at the taller man, a look of intense embarrassment on her face.

“That was one time!” she shouted hysterically. “We were drinking! And you promised to never bring it up again!”

Owain burst into raucous laughter, almost falling off the log as Severa beat her fists against him indignantly. As his laugher quieted Severa huffed and scooted away from him a little, facing away with her cheeks still darkened. They sat in companionable silence for a few moments before the red-haired girl glanced over her shoulder shyly.

“I’m still cold over here,” Severa grumbled, making Owain laugh a little again.

“Sorry dear,” he said, shifting closer to and wrapping an arm around her again.

They would set off again once Severa wasn’t at risk of freezing to death. Owain was sure that after three days the people of Silva could wait another twenty minutes for their salvation.

* * *

Robin glanced up from where he was busily trying to cram one last book in his pack, one of Lucina’s honey-cakes hanging out of his mouth and wobbling with the movement, as he heard footsteps approaching.

“Morning, Van,” the master-tactician said brightly around a mouthful of cake. “Kinda early to be up, isn’t it?”

The young boy in question, a handsome young man wearing leather training gear over a blue Ylissean Officer Cadet’s tunic shrugged as he stepped into the fort’s entryway, his long yellow scarf flapping in the wind. Van was one of Robin’s students from his second-tier class; older than most of the other students but still too inexperienced to join the advanced group. He had been a student in the Ylissean Officer’s Academy before Frederick had singled him out to be sent to Robin’s school, and as good a tactician as he was shaping up to be Robin couldn’t help but feel that he was depriving Ylisse of a gifted frontline commander.

 “I like to train early,” the boy admitted, running a hand over short, spiky black hair. “Force of habit from Officer’s School.”

“I’d ask if you want a sparring partner, but I don’t think we’ll get through a full round before I have to leave,” Robin said apologetically.

Van made a dismissive sound, waving a hand through the air.

“It’s fine, sir,” he assured his teacher. “Besides, Isaac still sleeps like a rock. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s late like usual.”

Robin snorted, suppressing a laugh. The two boys had history; Van had been a senior cadet at the Ylissean Officer’s Academy that they had both attended when Isaac had just enrolled. He’d even been the one to suggest that Isaac apply to the newly formed Tactician School two years ago before joining Isaac himself the previous year. His friendship with the younger boy was strange, though; Isaac wasn’t just baseborn, he was a war-orphan. Both parents had died in the war with Plegia seven years ago leaving him to be brought up in the Ylisstol Orphanage; and the only reason he had even warranted that treatment was because his mother had been one of Lady Phila’s Pegasus Knights, otherwise he would have been tossed out onto the streets and left to fend for himself. Van was the son of a minor Ylissean noble; a land-owned that had apparently done some favour for Chrom’s father and been knighted in return. Such friendships rarely happened outside of the Shepherds.

“Well then perhaps you had best run some laps then to warm up,” Robin suggested, taking another bite of his honey-cake.

Van grinned a little as he drifted towards the fort’s gates.

“Sure thing, sir,” he said brightly. “I’ll be sure to do that while you stuff your face with sweets.”

Robin choked on his cake as Van laughed, wandering into the courtyard to begin running his swordsmanship warm-up drills.

“Hey, I slayed the Dark Dragon, dammit!” Robin called after his student. “If I want to eat a honey-cake, I’ll eat the damn cake!”

Robin huffed before stuffing the last of the cake into his mouth and chewing vigorously. He stopped mid-chew when something moving in the corner of his eye caught his attention, spinning to find Mari’ko standing and waiting patiently for the others with her arms crossed in the corner of the hall.

“How long have you been there?” Robin asked around another mouthful of cake.

“Not long,” she said softly.

Robin quirked a brow, forcing the cake down his throat but not questioning his student further. He glanced down at the book still in one of his hands before looking back up at Mari’ko.

“Hey Mari …” he started, trailing off as she held her open bag out towards him.

“Did I ever mention you’re my favourite?” Robin chuckled, slipping his last book into her bag.

“I heard that,” Galle deadpanned, stepping into the hall with a perpetual sour look on his face. “It’s nice to feel appreciated, right Mari?”

* * *

Emmeryn sighed under the rim of her skull cap, leaning against the windowsill as she watched her dad and his older students walking away towards the forest. Her mom, her aunt and Miss Anna had all left earlier that morning, before she’d even woken up.

With another sigh as her dad and the others disappeared into the forest she moved away from the window, towards where Sahiri was sitting on the sofa and going through some papers.

It wasn’t a strange thing, her parents leaving, but usually they took her with them. She liked going to Ylisstol to see her Grandpa and Grandma; she liked going to Plegia to see her Auntie Tharja, even if she was kinda scary; she even liked going to the Coliseum to see Flavia, because the old Feroxi lady always gave her sweets when no one was looking. It was even more fun when Basilio was there; she loved the way that the old man would sit her on his knee and tell her long stories about how he had fought alongside her parents.

This was the first time they had left her behind, though, and it made her sad.

The door opened while she was halfway across the room, causing her to pause as one of the other students, the Ylissean boy Van, walked into the room.

“Reporting as ordered, ma’am,” He said, snapping to a smart salute.

“We’re not in the army anymore, Van,” Sahiri said, waving him down. “You can relax.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said somewhat sheepishly. “Force of habit. You wanted to see me?”

Sahiri nodded, placing the papers down and gesturing for Van to sit. Emm padded over as well, hopping up onto the sofa next to the older woman; her dad had told her to help Sahiri while he was gone. Van’s face lit up in a huge grin when he spotted Emm, making the young girl blush slightly.

“Heya, Emm,” he said cheerfully. “I like the hat.”

“It’s a helmet,” she corrected him.

“So it is,” Van laughed. “You here to keep Sahiri in line?”

Emm nodded, the helmet wobbling and eliciting another laugh out of the young man as Sahiri looked on with a wistful smile on her face.

“Alright, onto business,” Emm declared after a moment’s pause, looking to Sahiri.

“Well, as the young miss says,” Sahiri chuckled, facing Van again. “Van I called you here to ask for your help.”

“Anything,” he offered quickly.

“The fact of the matter is sir Robin left detailed lesson plans for both remaining classes,” Sahiri explained. “And only one instructor.”

“I… see,” Van said thoughtfully.

“I was hoping you could help me by taking care of the younger class while I continue teaching yours,” Sahiri said hopefully. “You already have the leadership training, and you’re ahead of the other students. In fact I’m sure the only reason sir Robin left you here rather than ask you to accompany him was to help me.”

Van went silent for a moment, holding his chin and nodding a few times in contemplation. Emm watched the subtle shifts in his posture and twitches to his face as he obviously seriously considered Sahiri’s request for a moment before becoming distracted by the urge to play with his long scarf. It was such a pretty scarf…

“Well, I said anything,” Van said at last. “But I do this on the condition that I get to see the notes from my own class in the evenings once I finish with the third class.”

“Agreed,” Sahiri said, passing a stack of papers to him.

“Just think of it like a temporary field promotion,” she added as Van started going over the words written in Emm’s dad’s handwriting.

“Welcome to the team, Van!” she said excitedly, holding her hand out to him to shake.

Van smiled again as he shook her hand, Sahiri looking on approvingly. Even if her parents were gone for now Emm realised that she wouldn’t be lonely as long as these two, the other students and even the four guards that worked for Sahiri were all still around.

* * *

Robin took a deep breath, smiling as he exhaled a cloud of white mist into the chilly morning air. Invigorated, the tactician hitched his pack higher up on his back and grinned over his shoulder at the small crowd following him.

“What’re you so happy about?” Rance muttered darkly, still half-asleep so early in the morning.

Beside him Isaac let out a mighty yawn, throwing his head back and covering his mouth with his hand.

“It’s freezing,” Galle muttered grumpily from the rear of the group. “I thought winter was supposed to be over…”

“Winter’s never over this far north,” Robin laughed. “It just gets slightly less cold.”

Isaac visibly shivered as Rance yawned this time; the two foreign boys seemingly still having trouble adjusting to the cold. Mari’ko, as always, was utterly unfazed by the temperature, standing next to Robin in her travelling clothes and lacquered Chon’sin breastplate under a thick cloak. Isaac and Galle were dressed similarly, the only difference between them being the Plegian’s predilection for black over Isaac’s favouring of earth-tones, while Rance was just dressed the way he always was.

Robin had to admit, though, that it was a strange feeling seeing his students carrying real weapons for a change. They each had a spellbook strapped to their hip the same way he always did, but they also each had their own weapons reflecting their own individuality.

Mari’ko wore a long, thin katana, as most of the warriors from her homeland did. Robin had seen her training with polearms and sickles as well, not to mention her prodigious skill with throwing knives. However, for this mission she would be paired up with Aversa in an attempt to get the younger woman to rely more on her magical abilities.

Isaac walked around with a greatsword strapped to his back, easily wider than Robin’s arm and nearly as long as he was tall. The young Ylissean had apparently made the sword himself during his brief period as a blacksmith’s apprentice, and from all the training Robin had seen used the weapon quite skilfully. His skill with magic was good for someone of his level, too, so he would be sent with Lucina once they reached Silva.

Rance had twin tomahawks strapped to his hips, and a larger two-handed axe on his back. His fighting style was the epitome of Feroxi warfare, too; loud, messy and brutal. He fought quick and dirtily with his twin axes, and could probably cut clean through a plate of armour with one swing of his bigger axe. However, he lacked subtlety, which was why he would be paired up with Anna for the duration of the mission.

Which left Galle, who had a simple short-sword strapped to his belt, to be paired with Robin. The Plegian, wandering along at the back of the group and shivering beneath his old Dark Mage’s robes, was decent with a sword, but unlike the other three he already excelled at magecraft. So Robin would be nudging him a little more towards the sword for this mission.

“Hey Teach, got any old war stories you can tell us to pass the time?” Rance asked, clearly already bored.

“Please don’t call me ‘Teach’,” Robin groaned. “Ever. And are you seriously bored already?”

“He has a short attention span,” Galle deadpanned from the back of the group.

“Fine,” Robin sighed, wary of Rance, who was currently glaring daggers at Galle’s back, starting a fight if left to his own devices. “Which one do you want to hear?”

* * *

Owain grinned beneath the hood of his cloak as he and Severa blended into the crowded main street of Silva, right under the noses of the invading bandits. Or the occupying bandits, Owain reminded himself. He didn’t have to look to know Severa was at his shoulder, her own travelling hood pulled low to hide her bright red hair.

The blonde Ylissean prince from the future liked to think that he had matured a little in the last few years; gone were the days where he tried to cope with the horror he’d been put through growing up by escaping into his imagination, although he still acted out his old persona out of habit or boredom sometimes. He liked to think that people such as Severa, his cousin Lucina and her husband Robin, who was also Owain’s old master, had had a calming effect on his personality over the years, too. Where before he would have simply started screaming challenges at the city gates and killed every bandit that crossed his path, he had been calmly wandering around, getting a grasp on the situation instead.

They had entered the city earlier that morning, and had been casing it ever since.

The crowd shifted uneasily through the streets of the marketplace, quiet for a Feroxi crowd; which of course meant that Owain could still barely hear himself think the patrons and merchants were screaming at each other so loud, but the mood was muted and the murderous thugs wandering around the press did nothing to improve it.

Burly, dirty men carrying axes and looking even more threatening than the average resident of Eastern Ferox pushed their way slowly through the crowd in a group, ignoring the startled yelps of people too slow to get out of their way and simply taking what they wanted from the vendors around them; fruit, bread and trinkets all disappeared into their pouches, and not one stood up to stop them.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Severa whispered in his ear. “And you’re an idiot. So let’s get this over with.”

Owain grinned over his shoulder at her, moving to pull his hood back as he stepped forward only to find himself being tugged into a nearby alleyway with a hand clamped firmly over his mouth. Severa, too, was being man-handled into the alley, but Owain calmed when he caught a glimpse of the woman shoving at his companion.

“Sword-hand, if you blow my cover I’ll be very upset,” Gaius whispered into Owain’s ear as he released the blonde boy. “Subtlety is clearly not your strong-suit. Heya, Red-Junior. How’s it going?”

Severa grunted as she pulled herself free of Panne’s grip, silently readjusting her cloak with a venomous glare at the oblivious Taguel woman.

“Sir Gaius!” Owain said happily, shaking the older man’s hand vigorously. “What are you doing here!?”

“Keep it down!” Gaius hissed, dragging Owain further back into the alleyway.

He looked around shiftily, making sure no one had heard them as Severa and Panne joined them in the shadows.

“I’m here to try and instigate a rebellion,” Gaius whispered irritably. “And I don’t need you making a scene in the marketplace to… make…”

The thief stopped for a moment, glancing around Owain into the passing crowd before letting out a sigh.

“What is it?” Owain asked excitedly. “Have you spotted the enemy!? Is he close!? My sword hand twitches!”

Panne quirked her head questioningly at her husband as Owain grasped at his wrist, attempting to subdue his sword-hand before it lashed out needlessly.

“What?” Severa asked Gaius, ignoring Owain.

“I was just thinking that this is Regna Ferox,” Gaius said with another sigh. “And the best way to get Feroxians to revolt would be to simply stir em up with a good fight in a public place.”

“I can do that,” Owain said, growing suddenly still with anticipation. “I can do that right now!”

“Ah!” Gaius warned, grabbing Owain by the scruff as he attempted to return to the market. “Not yet! I have more recon work to do first! You can start a revolution tomorrow.”

Severa huffed, crossing her arms and sinking to a hip.

“I think it would just be faster to let us in on what’s going on right now before Owain bursts a blood vessel.”

* * *

“I’m so sick of walking!” Rance complained loudly, collapsing dramatically onto the log next to the fire.

“Stop. Complaining,” Galle groaned across the firepit, putting his face in his hands. “For the love of Grima if you don’t shut up I swear I’ll-”

“Who’s hungry!?” Robin interrupted loudly, cutting off yet another fight before it could begin.

They had been walking all day, and were a little over three-quarters of the way to Silva. In the morning they would probably begin to come across the sentries Flavia would have positioned at her rear, but Robin didn’t want to stumble on them at night. Everything he could do to avoid little accidents and keep these kids out of harm’s way, he would do; including stopping them from tearing each other apart during the march.

He had told every war story he had; he had told a bunch of stories about the antics that he and Vaike had gotten up to in the early days; he had even held a verbal pop-quiz as they walked.

The problem was that Galle was too abrasive; Rance was too hot-headed; Isaac was a push-over and kept getting dragged into the arguments; and Mari’ko’s existence had gone practically forgotten until he’d started quizzing them.

Robin had to remind himself that they were just kids; that once they started fighting alongside each other all the little things that bugged them about each other would look small in comparison. The students were from all corners of the globe, from all walks of life and were all vastly different to one and other; it was a miracle they got along at all in Robin’s opinion.  They all trusted each other with their lives, though; that was what happened after training together non-stop for two years. But they were still just irritating teenagers.

“Naga help me when Emm gets to their age,” Robin muttered to himself as he bent over and stirred a large cooking pot.

Next to him there was a slight hitch in Mari’ko’s calm breathing, her equivalent of a snort of laughter. Obviously she’d heard him; it was strange the way that the girl always seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. Sometimes it was like having two Sahiris around, which was a scary thought.

“What’s on the menu?” Isaac asked curiously, the biggest of the students always being the first in line when there was food to be had.

“I made carrot stew,” Robin said brightly, giving the contents of the pot one last stir. “It’s an old specialty of mine, but it’s been a while, so I hope it’s okay.”

“Carrot stew?” Rance asked, paling a little as thoughts of the beatings Panne gave him regularly obviously surfaced.

“I’m so hungry I’d eat dirt,” Isaac said excitedly.

The blonde boy took an extra-large helping of the stew in his bowl before moving for Galle to get at the pot.

“Well help yourself,” the Plegian deadpanned. “There’s plenty to go- wow. What… is this?”

Galle poked at the concoction in his bowl without even bothering to hide to look of disdain on his face, stepping listlessly to one side as Rance shuffled forwards.

“Did you actually burn water!?” Rance asked incredulously, bursting into laughter.

“Look, eat it or go hungry,” Robin warned.

“Forget it, I’m going hunting,” Rance said as he tossed his wooden bowl back towards his pack and disappeared into the trees around them without a second thought.

“Fine, more for us, right Mari?” Robin stated, glancing over his shoulder.

Mari’ko’s eyes widened slightly as her hands shot down, clearly trying to hide the thick travelling rye bread that she had been eating. She gave a quick nod, doing her best to subtly kick the bag of food she’d brought with her behind the rock she was perched on.

“Mari, you are no longer the favourite,” Robin deadpanned, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Seconds please!” Isaac announced loudly, holding his bowl up in the air.

“See?” Robin said defensively to the others as the boy came forward again.

“Are you actually enjoying this… slop?” Galle asked in a shocked tone.

The pale Plegian made a face as he spooned some of the stew into his mouth, clearly trying not to gag or regurgitate the portion.

“No, it’s gods-awful,” Isaac admitted brightly. “But I’ve gone hungry before, and it sucks. Like the Priest at the orphanage always said; waste not, want not.”

“Gee, thanks,” Robin groaned, handing Isaac the ladle in abject defeat.

* * *

Owain had a massive grin on his face that night as he led Severa through the sparsely populated streets a few hours later, their trained eyes committing every sign of bandit activity to memory as they walked with their heads held low.

Owain was grinning because it was hilarious the way that he and Severa were being utterly ignored by the bandits supposedly on patrol. Four times now they had passed men obviously wandering around, looking for a fight or even just someone to step on, and four times now they had been ignored; any town guard worth their salt would have stopped the two hooded strangers and asked some questions, or at least told them to take off their hoods.

While it irked Owain somewhat to be doing reconnaissance work, he was mollified that Robin and Lucina would be there the next day to liberate the town.

And he was excited to take part in that liberation.

Severa stopped him with a slight tug at his cloak, indicating over to a small warehouse with a flick of her eyes as they walked. They passed the building without breaking pace, ignoring the hostile glares from the men not even attempting to hide the fact that they were standing guard out front.

“What do you think?” Severa whispered to him once they’d gone another block.

“Too small to be a weapons cache,” Owain said, thinking out loud. “We’ll mark it as a point of interest and let Robin decide what to do with it.”

Severa nodded, apparently having come to the same conclusion that her companion had.

“We should get back to the meeting point,” Severa suggested. “I need a bath.”

“Yeah, how well did that go for you this morning?” Owain asked, his grin widening a little.

“S-shut up!” Severa hissed, giving the quietly laughing boy’s shoulder a light shove.

* * *

“So what are we looking at?” Gaius asked without looking up.

The ginger-haired thief was leaning over a map of the city he had drawn marking important points and patrol patterns on it, Panne at his shoulder occasionally chiming in with relevant information she had picked up on with her keener-than-human senses.

Owain and Severa drew their hoods back, being ushered into the small home on the outskirts of the city by a haggard looking woman that ‘owed Gaius one’, meaning they had made her house their hideout. The low roof supported an single-room upper story that they would be using to keep watch, while the lower floor consisted of a kitchen and a table and not much else. The woman gave the two younger Shepherds a quick smile before going back to whatever was cooking on the fire in the corner.

They looked carefully at the map for a moment before saying anything, comparing mental notes.

“From what we can tell your guess was right,” Owain started. “It looks like the enemy is centralized around the marketplace where they can steal whatever they want easily.”

“There’s a small storehouse in the west that has guards at,” Severa reported. “We couldn’t get close enough to see what was in it, but it’s worth checking out once the troops arrive.”

“Right here,” Owain added, jabbing his finger into the map.

Gaius nodded, making a mark with some charcoal. The thief and part-time-spy nodded in satisfaction before rolling the map up and placing it securely in his pouch.

“I’ll make sure that Flavia gets this and be right back,” he said, drawing his hood up. “She can give it to Robin when he gets here with the kids. Panne, you wait here and keep these two out of trouble.”

Severa visibly bristled at the joking accusation that she would cause any trouble but held her tongue. Owain was too preoccupied with whatever was cooking in the corner to even take notice of half of what Gaius was saying; it was late now, and they hadn’t eaten since lunch.

“Be safe,” Panne said, briefly placing her forehead against Gaius’.

“I’ll be right back,” the thief promised nonchalantly before disappearing out into the night.

* * *

Outside of Silva in the forests to the north that hadn’t been cut down yet Flavia’s troops waited impatiently for the dawn. No cooking fires had been lit that night in case they gave away the army’s position, and lanterns were shuttered and carefully watched by the few junior officers that were wandering between the different clan-groups at Aversa’s urging. Only a few thick canvas tents had been erected by the Feroxi, the majority of the local warriors having to sleep with only their blankets and animal pelts to keep them warm; this didn’t bother them anyway, considering the legendary Feroxi resistance to the elements.

Inside one of the only tents Flavia grimaced, leaning forward against the table in her tent as he knuckles went white on its edge.

“This is pathetic,” Aversa continued, her tirade having been going for nearly ten minutes now. “There is not a single officer in this army! How are we supposed to do anything with this? I can’t even use the most basic plans if there’s no one to make sure the squads follow them. If you weren’t such an inept leader-”

“This coming from the strategist that we ground into the dirt with a force a fraction of the size of hers!?” the Khan snapped, slamming her fist onto the table. “I swear, witch, if you weren’t Robin’s sister I’d-”

“That’s enough,” Lucina declared, cutting the two women off mid-argument. “You don’t have to like each other, just work with each other.”

Aversa and Flavia continued to glare silently at each other for a few moments before Flavia clicked her tongue and turned away.

“I can play nice,” she growled. “Until Robin gets here and she becomes his problem again.”

“I am going to go and re-work all our plans,” Aversa sighed. “Again. No one is to disturb me unless we come under attack.”

With that the Plegian woman drew her hood up and swept out of the tent, leaving Lucina and Flavia alone in the cramped space. Anna was off organizing a surprise mercenary force that she apparently kept close at hand that only Robin knew about, and her husband wouldn’t be joining them until dawn, so Lucina would be alone with the Khan most of the night.

“I should have killed that bitch back in Plegia,” Flavia growled, punching the table again.

“Peace, Khan Flavia,” Lucina soothed. “She is just trying to help, even if she is going about it the wrong way.”

The older woman let out a sigh, sinking into a nearby chair and pulling a bottle out of a crate behind her. With one vicious movement Flavia tore the cork out of the bottle and took a deep swig, letting out a contented sigh. Lucina stepped toward the table, glancing at the reports that Aversa had compiled.

“As much as I hate her attitude Aversa had a point,” Lucina ventured carefully. “If you do not mind my asking, what happened to your army?”

Flavia let out another sigh before taking an even longer swig of her drink. She finally glanced up at Lucina, indicating the younger woman take a seat across from her.

“Plegia, Valm and Plegia again,” Flavia said.

“I… do not understand,” Lucina said. “I know that all the combined armies took losses, but…”

“The Eastern Regna Feroxi losses were catastrophic,” Flavia cut in. “Valm was what almost did us in, though.”

The Khan leaned back in her chair, her eyes taking a far-away quality as she thought.

“When a Khan is elected Regnant we put our own officers into power,” Flavia explained, her voice softening a little. “I was no exception. I was so eager to kick that oaf out of the Colosseum that we moved in the very next day. My officers were good, though; they all knew what they were doing, they all understood and trusted me. Hell, there were a lot of cousins and Aunts and Uncles in my staff. And we were all the first ones on the boats to Valm.”

“I think I understand now,” Lucina said with a slow nod.

“There was practically nothing left of my army when we combined all the forces to oppose Grima,” Flavia went on. “All of the officers were from the West, and that’s where they went back to when the war ended. I’ve done my best with what I have left to put things back together, but I’m not risking the leaders I have left on a piss-poor excuse for an insurgency like this.”

“Yeah, that’s what you’ve got us for, right?” a new voice asked from just outside the tent.

Flavia jumped a little as Lucina glanced up at the voice, its owner casually slipping into the tent and drawing his hood back with a trademark easy grin.

“Ah, Sir Gaius,” Lucina greeted. “I was expecting you earlier.”

“I ran into some friends,” the thief shrugged. “Some noisy friends. They’re going to help me with the first stage of the plan in the morning.”

Lucina nodded again as the thief passed a scroll to her.

“We’ve marked all the soft spots,” he explained. “Where to hit the walls, where to strike to cut off the bandits line of communication, and where their leaders most likely are. There’s a lot we didn’t have time to do, but from the looks of things this is going to be a cake-walk.”

“Good,” Lucina nodded.

“I gotta get back before your cousin does something stupid and blows our cover,” Gaius sighed, already edging for the door.

“Owain is here?” Lucina asked, confused.

“I caught him about to make a scene in the markets,” Gaius explained with a shrug. “And, you know, give my cover away. Red-junior is with him, too. We’re having a real party in town, you know. Might even break out the good sweets-stash.”

“What are they doing in Regna Ferox?” Lucina asked curiously.

“Probably the same thing you are,” Flavia snorted.

“Either way, I have a big day tomorrow so I gotta go,” Gaius said before slipping out of the tent and back into the night.

“See you on the field, ladies,” he added through the canvas as he slunk off back to the town.

Lucina and Flavia sat in silence for a few moments, the time-travelling princess racking her brain trying to remember if there had been any word of her cousin and childhood friend travelling this far north. She had heard that they were travelling in much the same way she and Robin had two years ago, but why they were in a logging town like Silva she just couldn’t fathom. Perhaps when Robin arrived he would be able to shed some light on her eccentric cousin’s behaviour. After all, her aunt had always said ‘it takes one to know one’…

Flavia let out an amused snort, bringing Lucina’s attention back to the present.

“Sorry,” the Khan said quickly, draining her bottle in one go before talking again.

“It’s just that this is starting to feel more and more like old times, isn’t it?”

Lucina nodded silently, surprised that she couldn’t disagree with the older woman at all.

* * *

“Come, my Feroxi brethren! Rise up and cast off the shackles of those who oppress you! Rise up, like the warriors of old, and strike down your foes! With the power of my sword hand on your side none can stand before us! For freedom!”

Severa sighed as she let Owain kick the mob in the market into a frenzy. Technically he was half Chon’sinian, but since his father had adopted Regna Ferox as his homeland she guessed it didn’t really matter. The mob was almost deafening as Owain roared over them, shouting about their proud history and the wrath and fire of their ancestors or something. Severa had honestly stopped listening now. Not that she didn’t love her boyfriend, but sometimes he could still be longwinded.

The two of them had come into the marketplace fully prepared to fight, weapons already drawn and hidden under their cloaks as they had approached the bandits still lurking around and bullying the local populace. Owain hadn’t said a word before throwing off his cloak to reveal his familiar yellow tunic and began attacking the biggest of the bandits. Severa had backed him up, of course, because without her he’d wind up getting himself killed, but Owain had used all of his flashiest, most acrobatic moves against the bandits to get the townspeople’s attention, shouting silly finishing move names all the while. And apparently, if the crowd cheering along to every word he said was anything to go by, his antics had paid off.

They were fit to blow. All they needed was a target now, something to be unleashed on.

* * *

Robin let out a breath, closing his eyes and stretching out his neck. He was getting too old to be camping.

“Nervous?” he asked, his head still rotating in circles.

Galle glanced up from his spellbook, clapping it shut and putting it back in his pouch.

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t,” the younger man admitted dryly.

“Yeah, you never get used to it,” Robin sighed, opening his eyes and looking back over the soldiers hidden in the forest around him. “The only people that do are the ones that lose themselves to their jobs and the psychopaths.”

“So what does that make the Feroxi, then?” Galle asked, quirking a brow at the fifty men around the two tacticians.

Robin shrugged. “From a different culture?”

“That’s reassuring,” Galle sighed, drawing his sword. “What was the signal again?”

Robin grinned at the usually quiet boy’s talkativeness; nerves did strange things to people, after all.

“You’ll know it when you see it,” Robin assured him, leaning back against a nearby tree.

Galle just scoffed as he dug a small whet-stone out of his pouch, arching an eyebrow at the senior tactician before beginning to sharpen his sword.

Robin glanced over the squad, or more accurately ‘mob’ considering there wasn’t any unit cohesion what-so-ever in a Feroxi army, that Flavia had assigned to him; fifty-odd warriors all from Eastern Regna Ferox, their brightly coloured armour covered in pelts and furs and their hair festooned with charms and beads. There were a large number of women in the squad; another side-effect of the wars against Valm and Plegia being that a lot more women had been pressed into military service in recent years. Robin couldn’t help but grin at the idea that every woman here could probably kick his ass. And Galle’s. Unarmed.

Robin blinked a few times, starting to think he was becoming some sort of masochist. With a shake of his head he reminded himself what he was supposed to be doing at present.

“So that’s what you’re going to do before battle?” he asked the moody Plegian boy.

“It’s important, seeing as you banned me from using magic,” Galle pointed out.

“So is triple and quadruple-checking your plans,” Robin sighed. “You’re not just responsible for your own life today; you’re responsible for all of theirs, too. Mine, too, so don’t screw this up or you’ll have Lucina to answer to.”

Galle faltered as he ran the whet-stone down his blade, nearly cutting himself in the process. He quickly stood up straight and cleared his throat, placing the stone back in his pocket and focusing his full attention on Robin.

“Could I see those maps again please, master?” he asked seriously.

“Sure thing, kid,” Robin laughed, passing the copy of Gaius’ map to him. “Just don’t lose them.”

* * *

Rance fidgeted restlessly, flexing his knuckles on the hafts of his axes and looking longingly over in the direction of the city wall again, the top of which was just barely visible through the trees. All around him were mercenaries brought in by the Anna merchant network, thirty men and women from mostly Ylisse and Valm wearing mismatched steel armour and wielding a variety of different weapons.

“What happened to a local squad?” he muttered sullenly.

Rance was disappointed that he wouldn’t get to show off his new skills to his brethren like the other students did, but Anna’s mercenaries only worked well as a unit, rather than separated through the rest of the army.

“This was your idea,” Anna pointed out, flipping a coin lazily over her fingers as she leaned back against a tree.

“How can you be so calm right now?” Rance asked exasperatedly.

“Practice,” Anna replied with a wink. “I’ll teach you some time, but-”

“I know, I know,” Rance interrupted with a sigh. “It’ll cost me, right?”

Anna snickered, her coin only pausing its motion for a second.

“You might be smarter than the others give you credit for, kid,” Anna said with a grin. “Robin still hasn’t learned that fact yet.”

“Shut up and give me the stupid map,” Rance sighed, deciding to busy himself going over their plan again.

Talking to the merchant woman, war-hero or not, was giving him a headache.

* * *

Gaius grinned a little as he watched the frenzied mobs of villagers, all of which were wielding some form of appropriated or improvised weapon, chase a small group of bandits past his hiding place. He had to give Sword-hand props; the kid knew how to whip up a mob.

He and Panne were close now to the warehouse district where the loggers kept the lumber they harvested. A number of other things were kept there too, like private storehouses and the tiny guard barracks, but it was mostly lumber; a fact that made Gaius insatiably curious about what the bandits could possibly be guarding in the storehouse that the kids had spotted.

“Should we not wait for Robin’s attack?” Panne asked quietly from the shadows behind him.

“We are,” Gaius assured her, peeking out around the corner again. “I just want to check out that storehouse we missed before it gets loud.”

“It is already loud,” Panne complained softly.

“We’ll go someplace quiet after this, I promise,” Gaius told his mate with a rougish grin. “I heard that some of Say’ri’s retainers are getting a little too fond of their wealth.”

With that the nimble thief darted out of their hiding place, crouched low as he crossed the street towards the next line of buildings.

“Chon’sin is quiet,” Panne commented idly as she followed him.

The duo paused momentarily as a jet of green smoke flew into the air, the product of one of Miriel’s weird inventions that also served as a great signal to attack. Gaius and Panne both stopped to watch the smoke before looking at each other for a brief moment.

“We still have time,” he declared with a shrug, setting off again at a quickened pace.

“The last time you said that Morgan told me we scarred Yarne for life,” Panne warned, easily keeping pace with the thief.

Gaius let out a snort, followed by the sound of him desperately trying not to burst into laughter as he ducked behind a crate. Panne rolled her eyes as she followed him, marvelling at the fact that such a childish man could be such a skilled thief. Gaius shuffled in a squat to the edge of the stack of crates, peeking around it at the warehouse that Owain had marked the previous evening.

“Bingo,” he whispered. “Sweet pay-dirt.”

Panne took a deep breath, testing the scents on the wind as she strained her ears. As always the first things to reach her were the sugary scent of her mate and the sound of his steady heartbeat; the blood rushing through his veins was a dull roar that the Taguel momentarily allowed herself to enjoy before forcing herself to focus on the information she was receiving from the storehouse. Judging from the smells and sounds there were numerous humans inside, but something else, too. Something… old. Something that stirred a primal part of Panne’s consciousness to awaken.

“Er… sweet-heart? You’re growling,” Gaius said, his hand gripping her shoulder tightly.

Panne clamped her jaw closed, taking a few deep breaths. Gaius retained his hold on her, in case she went berserk and gave their position away, but the Taguel woman had a handle on things now.

“There is something in that storehouse,” she said, her breathing slightly shaky now that the adrenaline was fading.

Gaius nodded, releasing her with a reassuring pat before taking another look around the crates. Panne pressed her back to the wooden boxes behind her, willing her heart to slow; just what was in the building she didn’t know, but it instinctively set her on edge.

“There’s two guards. They didn’t hear you, but they still seem antsy,” he told her in a hushed whisper. “It’s weird; must be somethin’ important to keep ‘em here, rather than helping their buddies.”

“I need to know what’s inside that building,” she whispered to the human next to her.

“Are there more people inside?” he asked her, never looking away from the guards.

Panne nodded. “At least six. I… can’t be sure.”

“Ah whatever, we’re just taking a quick look.”

Gaius nodded, pulling two small throwing knives out of the depths of his cloak. With a burst of speed the small man threw himself out of cover into a roll, the two little knives flashing out almost faster than Panne’s eyes could follow. With strangled gasps the two bandits brought their hands to their throats, grasping at the knives embedded in them. Before either man could recover Gaius crossed the space and finished them with quick, merciful strokes from his dagger. He looked around a few times before giving the signal for Panne to follow him, and slipped around the other side of the storehouse.

“Are we not going to hide the bodies?” Panne asked curiously as she caught up.

“No point,” he answered distractedly.

There were large, open windows at the top of the high wall above them to let light and air into the storehouse. Of course they wouldn’t have glass in them in Regna Ferox, which made Gaius’ life infinitely easier. Putting his dagger back in its sheathe he pulled out the small, strong rope with the grappling hook on the end that he kept on his person at all times. With expert movements he tossed the small hook up to the window, never making a sound, before testing the rope and pulling himself up.

Panne stood watching her mate, her sense of unease almost overwhelming this close to the window. Whatever was creating that scent was driving her mad; every part of her screamed ‘run’ so loud she almost obeyed. Her fur stood on end, her pule was quickened, her eyes were wide and her muscles were tense and ready to defend herself and her mate. If not for the fact that she had to be her mate’s lookout she probably would have lost herself and fled.

Gaius ascended the wall silently, hand over hand until he reached the window where he’d latched his hook. With quick motions he loosened the hook so he could pull it down again, before propping himself against the wall and bottom sill of the window to get a good look inside.

What he saw made him suck in a breath, his eyes wide and his body going rigid.

“Okay…” he mumbled to himself. “That’s… probably not a good thing…”

He glanced down at Panne as the colour drained from his face.

“I’ll stall them here; go and find Robin,” Gaius whispered desperately. “Right now!”


	4. Chapter 4

Lucina glanced around the crowded residential street in Silva’s outer strata with a sense of pride and satisfaction as the Feroxi warriors rushed to the aid of the locals, all at Mari’ko’s orders. The young woman had taken Robin’s teachings to heart, and was organizing the aid and evacuation of the locals before even beginning to think about engaging the enemy. Even better yet she had sent runners to the other three groups, warning them that she would be delayed and giving them detailed suggestions she had come up with on the fly on how to compensate for her force’s absence.

It had been a snap decision on Robin’s part when he’d arrived, to change the groupings; Isaac and Mari’ko had about the same level of magical competency, but Mari’ko was slightly more confident than the big Ylissean boy. Apparently Robin had subtly tested them during their march and found that Isaac needed the slight boost with his mage training more than Mari’ko did, prompting him to make the change.

Lucina smiled slightly as the girl climbed up on a crate to get a better view of what was going on, her battle-dress strikingly similar to Lady Say’ri’s yet of a pale shade of pink rather than the Chon’sinian Empress’ favoured white.

“Are there any more wounded?” Mari’ko shouted over the clamour, her normally quiet voice cutting through the noise like a knife.

“Nay, tactician,” one of the closer Feroxi warriors answered. “We’ve gotten’ em all out.”

“One squad stays here to guard the non-combatants!” Mari’ko shouted, her voice carrying authority far belying her years. “That’s ten warriors! Everyone else, grab a weapon and keep up!”

A lusty roar went up from the locals as weapons were held aloft; Mari’ko had also pleasantly surprised Lucina by adapting to the changing mood of the local populace. Given the Feroxi love of fighting and the eager mood to run the bandits out of town the civilians would have simply gotten underfoot and disrupted their plans as they moved. Mari’ko had made the right decision to fold them into the battle-group. It was something that Robin would have done, which had further served to convince Lucina that her decision to hand command over to the girl had been the right one.

Robin had been explicit about his orders; the students were there as observers only. However Lucina had been younger than Mari’ko by at least five years when she had led her first soldiers on the field with Cullen back in the future she had come from, and trusted the girl to be able to cope. She would remain by the Chon’sinian’s side, but would not interfere unless necessary.

“Lady Lucina?” Mari’ko asked somewhat hesitantly, snapping the older woman out of her reverie. “We are ready to move.”

Lucina nodded, giving the assembled host a quick glance to ensure nothing was out of place. All of the warriors looked to be in high spirits and were prepared to move on the town’s central markets, where according to Gaius’ intel was where the bandits were located, and the civilians in the area had been evacuated out to the forest.

“Very well, Tactician Mari’ko,” Lucina said with an encouraging nod. “Lead the way.”

The girl nodded, holding her sword high as the signal to march. The Feroxi around her let out another loud cheer and started moving in the general direction of the markets, although ‘stampeding’ might have been a more accurate way to describe their movements.

Mari’ko and Lucina followed along, caught up in the flow with the press of bodies. Lucina turned to check a side street, taking her eyes off the path ahead of her for barely a moment, before she walked straight into the Feroxi warrior in front of her, a large woman that oddly reminded her of Vaike.

“Why have we stopped?” Lucina asked quickly.

“Lady Panne!” Mari’ko called out, waving above the heads of the Feroxi around her.

Lucina perked up, glancing around the shoulder of the warrior before her and catching sight of a brown form the size of a horse barrelling down the narrow street towards them. Lucina felt her stomach tighten a little as she realised that the Taguel was visibly flustered and she couldn’t see Gaius anywhere, and years of experience took over.

“Make way!” she roared, parting the crowd of warriors with naught but those two words.

Lucina strode forward through the path that opened almost instantly, her tone of voice demanding obedience. Mari’ko stumbled a little as she followed the fencing instructor, awed at this sudden change of character.

“Where is Robin?” Panne asked as she skidded to a stop, the Taguel not even bother to shift forms again.

“By now he should be in the marketplace,” Lucina answered without hesitation.

“I must find him,” the giant rabbit insisted.

Lucina nodded, making a snap decision.

“Mari’ko, go with Panne,” she ordered, turning on her heel to face the girl. “Find Robin. Do whatever Panne tells you to in the process.”

The girl’s eyes widened slightly before she nodded, accepting Lucina’s judgement and stepping forward to Panne; she was too young and inexperienced to lead the Feroxi on her own if Lucina went with Panne, especially when she had been sent as Lucina’s observer in the first place.

“We will need to take the back roads,” Mari’ko said, striding right up to the Taguel. “It will be faster, and I have most of the map memorized.”

“Good,” Panne said, crouching low to the ground. “You will slow me down. Get on.”

Mari’ko froze, eyes widening slightly again before she nodded and swung a leg over Panne’s shoulders. To the girl’s credit she only hesitated for a moment.

“For what it’s worth, Mari,” Lucina called out before Panne could bolt. “You were doing a splendid job today.”

“Thank you, sensei,” she said, a small smile quirking the corners of her mouth.

“Protect her, Panne,” Lucina said, stepping back.

The Taguel nodded, glancing up at the human clutching her fur out of the corner of her eye.

“Hold tight, young one,” she instructed. “And shout your directions as we come upon them. Time is of the essence.”

* * *

“So we’re just going to… stand here?” Isaac asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” Aversa sighed.

“Even though there’s a battle going on?” he persisted.

“What part of ‘rear guard’ did you not understand?” Aversa snapped. “Do something smart and use this time to practice your magic. I will call you if we have to move into the town, so stop pestering me and practice!”

Isaac stiffened at his teacher’s reprimand, the impatient Aversa letting out a sigh as the Ylissean boy turned away with a frown on his face.

“Do you know why we are the rear guard?” Aversa asked in a sigh.

Isaac turned slightly back to the older woman, raising his brow in a silent question, wary of provoking the clearly displeased Aversa any further.

“It is because the mages and archers are a liability in closed confines such as a city,” she explained. “Especially one such as Silva, where roads have been thrown together around and between buildings as an afterthought. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mistress,” Isaac said woodenly, a note of disappointment creeping into his voice.

Aversa and Isaac were positioned at the head of Flavia’s archers, left behind as the ‘rearguard’. As he stopped to think about it, Aversa’s point made sense to Isaac. It would be pointless for the archers to deploy in the city, with its narrow and winding streets, unless it was necessary. Robin had changed his mind about the pairings right at the last minute, and instead of charging headlong into danger with his friends he was here. Standing. Bored and anxious next to his magic instructor.

“So go and use this time for what my dearest brother intended you do with it, and practice your spellcraft,” Aversa said, turning away from Isaac in obvious dismissal.

“Yes, mistress,” Isaac sighed, moving a small way away from the archers in case he lit something or someone on fire with his sup-par spellmanship again, conceding to the fact that he was essentially being left out of this battle.

“I hope the others are having more fun,” he muttered, spreading his feet shoulder-width apart and opening his spellbook to the ‘elfire’ pages.

* * *

“This is not fun!” Galle shouted, dodging beneath the axe of one of the bandits and back-peddling away from the bigger man. “This is so not fun! This is-”

Robin was there in a flash, running the burly and unkempt man through before kicking the lifeless bandit off of his rapier. 

“Will you focus already!?” Robin sighed. “It’s just a couple of bandits, this is noth-”

The tactician cut himself off mid-sentence, turning to throw a few bolts of lightning magic at some charging bandits as they rounded the corner.

“And I thought you said no magic!” Galle complained loudly.

“Do as I say, not as I do,” Robin grinned.

The older tactician turned, trusting Galle to keep pace with him and the rest of the Feroxi. They were almost on the marketplace now, leading the unit at a mad pace towards the sounds of fighting. Anna’s group, being comprised of the more heavily armoured mercenaries that she made a habit of hiring, had taken the most direct route to the marketplace acting as the shock-troops. The Feroxi were supposed to sweep in from both flanks and take the Bandit force unaware, but according to their runner Lucina and Mari’ko had been bogged down in the residential quarters, so Robin and Galle would hit them first and hope that the others caught up before the bandits could slip out the opposite flank.

The sound of battle grew as Robin’s force neared the market, the smoke wafting on the air also rising above the buildings, giving the older tactician flash-backs to the last time he’d been in a burning city, back in Valm. It had been the capital, after the battle that had seen Walhart deposed and the resistance leader Priam dead; Robin had wandered around for hours looking for Lucina in the aftermath, afraid that she had disappeared again…

The bitter memories fell to the back of Robin’s mind as his squad burst into the chaos of the marketplace, a roar escaping his lips. Curiously, the usually quiet and sardonic Galle was emulating him, the boy screaming at the top of his lungs as they charged at the head of the rabid Feroxi warriors.

The bandits at the side flank glanced up, having apparently managed to keep Anna’s mercenaries mostly out of the marketplace and stand their ground. A row of large kite-shields and spears was all that Robin could see of the mercenaries, but he could hear the Captain shouting orders to advance over them in a Valmese accent, with Rance and Anna no doubt not far away. The few bandits smart enough to be standing watch over the flank let out dismayed cries before falling beneath Robin’s charge, the tactician himself cutting deep into the enemy formation. He lashed out, precise blows incapacitating the bandits by striking at tendons and exposed flesh as he flashed through their ranks like a black and silver blur.

Robin was careful about how he fought, though; he had been explicit in his orders that the bandits be taken alive if possible. He and Chrom had talked at length during his long hospital stay after the final battle with Grima, and both had been appalled at the sheer loss of life after the half-decade of constant fighting. There were so few people left in their generation that Robin balked at the thought of taking lives wantonly. Wounds could be healed, bones mended, tendons magically reconnected, but lives couldn’t be brought back. There was a chance, however small, that these men could still reform.

Of course, Robin thought with a grim smile as he ducked beneath an axe aimed at his neck, that didn’t mean that the bandits felt the same way.

Galle was at his side instantly, their earlier roles reversed as he lashed out out with a harsh and brutal series of kicks to the offending bandit’s knee, ribs and then jaw before the younger tactician spun away, leaving Robin to headbutt the reeling bandit into unconsciousness.

“That was good,” Robin said admirably. “Although I did want you to practice more with your sword.”

Galle raised one brow and opened his mouth to say something, his voice catching in his throat as Robin shoved him in the shoulder and forced him out of the path of a flying hand axe. The younger man paled a little as his teacher pirouetted and threw another thunderbolt back in the direction that the axe had come from.

Galle shook his head, gripping his sword one handed and lashing out at another passing bandit with a closed fist. His blow smashed into the larger man’s unprotected back, just at the base of his neck, dropping him in a spasming heap. He spun then, landing another kick into the ribs of a second bandit, forcing him back onto Robin’s blade. The older tactician marvelled at the younger man’s skill; not a movement was wasted, and every blow was sharp and brutal. He most definitely did not recall teaching Galle that style.

“Do you even need a sword?” Robin laughed. “Who taught you to fight like that?”

Galle shrugged, flexing his bruising hand a little. “I just kinda picked it up.”

“Well,” Robin said with a proud smile as he cast another wind spell over his shoulder. “You’ll have to show me some moves once we get back to the school. You fight like a bastard.”

“Uh… thanks…” Galle muttered, clearly unsure how to take his teacher’s comments.

Before Robin could continue with his strangely worded praise another shout of alarm came up from the opposite side of the bandits, making both tacticians glance up over the heads of the warriors.

“It’s about time they showed… wait,” Robin said, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the form that emerged from the narrow streets into the markets.

Panne bounded through the bandits, tearing her way through the men barring her way without even breaking stride before she skidded to a halt before Robin. A visibly shaken Mari’ko slid from the Taguel’s back, wide-eyed and wobbling a little before composing herself.

“What happened?” Robin asked without preamble.

“Gaius sent me to get you,” Panne said quickly, her flanged voice strained. “He told me to tell you ‘he is out of sweets’.”

Robin’s eyes momentarily widened at the code-phrase before he sighed and nodded, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a small leather cord. Mari’ko and Galle both watched silently, eyes wide and barely daring to breathe as for the first time since meeting him years ago Robin drew the hair out of his face and tied it back, clearly displaying the burn scar above his left eye. That, coupled with the scar across the bridge of his nose, made the older man seem even more imposing.

“Galle, go get Flavia. Tell her that play-time is over. We crush this rebellion now.”

“R-right,” the young Plegian stammered, practically tripping over himself to follow Robin’s orders; he’d never seen the older man this serious, and it admittedly unsettled him.

“Mari, I want you to try and hold things here,” Robin went on, striding towards Panne. “Galle will be right back with Flavia, but I’m trusting you to maintain order until they arrive.”

“Yes, sensei,” she replied with a slight bow.

Robin nodded before climbing up onto Panne’s back. His face softened somewhat as he lightly brushed his hands over her rabbit-form’s shoulder fur, grinning a little as she shuddered.

“Morgan told me Yarne was ticklish, too,” Robin chuckled.

“I can still make you walk,” Panne deadpanned before darting off at a sprint.

Mari’ko watched them disappear into the nearest alleyway before spinning on her heel to take stock of the current situation, a rising feeling of pride growing in her breast at being entrusted with such an important task on her own, even if it was only for a short period of time.

She glanced up as she heard Rance’s distinct, manic laughter, the mercenaries he was at the head of finally breaking the bandit line and rushing the marketplace. The shield wall parted, allowing the other student tactician and Lady Anna to rush forward alongside a squad of mercenaries being led by a hardened-looking man of middle-age wielding a two-handed axe.

“Forward, warriors of Regna Ferox!” Mari’ko bellowed, brandishing her sword. “Let us finish this before the Khan arrives!”

Mari’ko was in no way a competitive person, but with a slight grin she told herself that she would be damned if she let Rance steal her spotlight.

* * *

Galle grimaced as he shoved his way through the rushing crowds of Feroxi soldiers and civilians, looking for a standard or an honour-guard or something that might give him some indication of where Khan Flavia was.

That was one of the things that bothered him the most about the Regna Ferox military; the utter lack of cohesion. Plegia and Ylisse’s armies both had a similar command structure, and although the Valmese officer-hierarchy was based on bloodlines it was similar enough that he would have been able to guess where the command staff was stationed. Feroxi war-bands were, in Galle’s opinion, a mess. The Khan would move about wherever they wanted, quite often at the frontlines where they couldn’t properly command, leaving their junior officers to handle the actual running of the army. Robin’s lessons had prepared him for the same style of leadership, but Galle never intended to lead from the front. It was inefficient and ludicrous for a tactician to fight on the frontlines. Galle would advise military leaders, the way a tactician should, and-

With a grunt the young tactician trainee fell to the ground, the solid wall of a Feroxi warrior accidentally shoulder-barging him from her path knocking him flat.

“Sorry kid,” the older woman said lightly, stopping and dragging him to his feet by the scruff.

She blinked a few times before her face hardened and she rested her giant gold-hued sword on her shoulder.

“Aren’t you one of Robin’s kids?” Khan Flavia asked the glowering Galle.

“Yes, and I was sent to look for you,” he snapped. “Something’s happened and my master suggested that you move into the marketplace with a slight modicum of haste.”

Flavia quirked one brow, indicating with one hand the warriors surging around them towards the direction of the markets.

“We’re working on it,” she pointed out. “Robin say why I had to hurry?”

Galle shook his head irritably. “No, but Mari’ko is holding the market by herself and-”

“And by now Anna and Lucina’s groups should have converged as well,” Flavia cut him off. “I already called off the sweep of the outer wards to move into the city proper, so you can relax, kid. I’ve never seen Robin get flustered over anything like this. C’mon, stick close and we’ll rout the bastards before supper time.”

Galle seethed at being ordered around so wantonly as the Khan brushed by him, especially being ordered around by the barbarian-queen herself. The Plegian boy took a deep breath as he followed her, reminding himself that all the nations were currently at peace, and his racism was unjustified. Khan Flavia was simply doing her job.

Being Plegian didn’t mean that Galle could hate everyone indiscriminately like some of the older men from his village did. In the end it had been Ylisse and Regna Ferox that had saved Plegia from itself. Even if the Ylisseans were mostly overly pretentious and the Feroxi were mostly brutish thugs, who was he to judge? There were always outliers in every culture.

They came out into the marketplace while Galle was still debating international diplomacy with himself, shocking him quite rudely out of his reverie. With sharp eyes the trainee tactician glanced around, taking in everything in a moment.

The damage didn’t look too bad, in his opinion. Of course there was some collateral damage to the storefronts, and no doubt the stalls had been ground to kindling beneath the feet of the bandits and warriors, but nothing that couldn’t be replaced. What was more worrying to Galle was the sight of Rance standing on a box barking orders.

“You lot, circle around east! Go door to door, make sure everyone’s safe!” the local tactician trainee was shouting. “You lot, push on to the Mill-Ward near the river! That’s where the bandits are supposed to be- Galle! Galle, over here! Hey! Over! Here!”

Just as the Plegian boy was starting to feel a spark of respect for his classmate the feeling was dashed when Rance started jumping up and down and waving his arms to get his attention.

“I see you, you idiot!” Galle sighed, pushing through the crowd. “Weren’t you giving orders?”

Rance’s reply was lost in Khan Flavia’s booming voice as she leapt up onto the box he had just stepped down from.

“Right! Who’s coming to the Mill-Ward with me!?” she roared, a feral grin on her face.

The reply was deafening in the closed-space that was the market, the roar of the crowd of warriors and armed civilians bouncing back off the nearby buildings and making Galle wince. It didn’t help that Rance was screaming at the top of his lungs next to him, either.

As the majority of the Feroxi warriors coalesced into one great mob and followed Flavia Galle found himself standing with Rance, surrounded by Anna’s mercenaries and a few of the more even-tempered locals.

“Those were some pretty good orders you were throwing about before I got here,” Galle said. “I didn’t expect that from you. I’m impressed.”

“They were the Princess’,” Rance shrugged honestly. “I was just doing the shouting because her voice was hoarse from yelling earlier.”

“That makes much more sense,” Galle muttered with a comprehending nod.

“Wow, thanks for your confidence in me,” Rance groaned, rolling his eyes before giving the Plegian boy a playful punch in the arm.

Just as Galle was deciding whether to shove his sword down Rance’s throat or to enquire as to the whereabouts of their only female classmate she reappeared in the northern side of the market with Anna with a sour look on her usually expressionless face, making his decision for him.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Anna was saying in her usual carefree tone. “I’ll charge Robin for the herbs, so you just worry about the fighting.”

“Everything okay?” Rance asked as he and a frowning Galle approached the two women.

“I just had to give Mari here a concoction to make her throat feel a little better,” Anna said innocently. “It most definitely had been tested in the past and found to have a low mortality rate, so I don’t see what she was so grumpy about.”

“Jeez, sounds great. Where can I get one?” Galle deadpanned, raising a brow. “Are you trying to convince us, or yourself here?”

“Sheesh, if that’s the face she’s making I can’t imagine how bad it was,” Rance said sympathetically.

“Do we not have work to do?” Mari’ko croaked, brushing by the boys to begin organizing the sweeping search pattern to ensure no bandits were still hiding in the city. “Come. We should have this organized before Lucina-Sensei arrives.”

“Just how bad was that stuff?” Rance whispered to Galle.

The other boy responded by rolling his eyes and following after Mari’ko, intending to act as her voice so that she didn’t hurt herself further. Rance sighed and turned to the manically grinning Anna, preparing to continue to follow her lead with the mercenaries.

“I am not drinking anything you give me,” he warned her.

“Aw, you’re no fun,” Anna pouted.

* * *

Robin half-leapt, half-fell off of Panne’s back as she finally drew to a stop, shaking his head and willing his breakfast to remain where it was.

“And I thought that… flying was bad,” he groaned.

Panne’s mouth opened but she swallowed her words, her response lost as a pair of light feet dropped to the rough dirt path right next to them.

“It’s about time you two showed up,” Gaius said, swaying dangerously. “I didn’t know how much longer I could distract ‘em for… had to set the warehouse on fire and everything…They still got most of ‘em out, though…”

“Gaius!” Robin called out as Panne darted forward to catch her mate.

“You owe me… so many honey-cakes for this…” the thief sighed as Panne lowered him to the ground. “I’m fine. Just tired…”

The thief’s cloak was in tatters and singed in places, but aside from a few scratches on his arms and face Robin couldn’t see any serious wounds. Panne sighed, standing again after propping Gaius against the side of the nearest building and looking at Robin expectantly.

“You going to be alright?” he asked.

Gaius just waved them off, closing his eyes and attempting to catch his breath. Robin gave the other man one last quick look to make sure he was okay before he grinned and shook his head, jogging over to the warehouse across the road from their hiding place with Panne close behind. Around the road a few blood-splatters were accompanied by even fewer bodies; however the fact that Gaius had held the area alone for so long was no mean feat. Robin definitely intended to repay the man with his weight in sugary treats.

Frantic sounds of activity came from within the building, and smoke rose from the opposite end. Robin cursed himself for forgetting to ask Gaius what, exactly, he would find inside the building, but if it had been that dangerous the thief would have reported to him with Panne as well, rather than try to delay the bandits. As he passed Robin could see evidence of where Gaius had barred the doors and even moved some lighter crates in front of them, explaining why he was so tired. Smoke was billowing out of the gaps in the slatted sides of the buildings that acted as high windows, the sounds of panic and hustling from within beginning to increase in pitch.

Carefully tugging the large doors open a fraction to look inside with one hand as he drew his rapier again with his other, Robin leaned forward to peek inside.

He instantly pulled his face back, though, as a thick cloud of smoke wafted from the opening.

“What in the hell did Gaius do!?” he coughed, blinking the tears from the smoke out of his eyes.

“He distracted them,” Panne answered without a hint of emotion in her voice.

“Yes, thank you for pointing out the obvious,” Robin deadpanned, crouching down to where the smoke was thinner before leaning forward again.

What he saw within wasn’t too out of the ordinary given the circumstances; there was a fire crackling through the bales of hay along the back wall of the space, where about ten or twelve workers were hastily trying to put out the blaze; Robin couldn’t get an accurate count on the people through the smoke. A single wooden crate, easily the size of Anna’s old cart, sat on an even larger cart, clearly about to have been moved before the fire had ‘broken out’.

“What’s in the box?” Robin asked in a hushed whisper.

“I do not know,” Panne said, a strange tightness to her voice. “But whatever it is, it makes me nervous.”

Robin glanced up at the Taguel leaning over him to look into the warehouse for a moment before nodding.

“We’ll worry about it after we stop these guys,” he declared, standing and pulling the door all the way open, smoke billowing past them in a great cloud. “I’ll put out the fire, be ready to back me up if they become hostile.”

Panne nodded, following at Robin’s shoulder as he held up his hands and began to cast a spell he hadn’t used in a really long time. He almost faltered, considering reaching for his spellbook to make sure he wasn’t screwing anything up, but decided against it and shouted the last of the incantation.

“Fimbulvetr!” he roared.

The ambient temperature in the warehouse plummeted as Robin and Panne’s breath misted in front of their faces. Large slabs of ice rose up around the flames, trapping them in a vacuum and extinguishing them in a manner of seconds, right in the faces of the stunned men trying to extinguish them. They whirled around with stunned looks, dropping buckets full of water that had frozen solid as they shivered in the unnatural cold.

“Gentlemen,” Robin greeted with a confident grin as ice crystals still danced and swirled around him. “How’s it going?”

* * *

Owain had to grin as he led a small horde of angry Feroxi locals through the smaller secondary markets just outside of Silva’s slums, Severa at his side like always.

The bandits that had terrorized the villagers for nearly a week were in full retreat now, fleeing before the might of his sword-hand. They had passed through the marketplace like a battering ram, where he had given an energetic wave to his old ally Anna and what was obviously one of Robin’s students with her, a local boy judging from his lighter clothes, before crashing into the town after their cowardly foes.

They had been given the easiest job, considering Owain’s ability to rile up a crowd; they were simply chasing the bandits and getting them away from the civilians; the slums were empty now, thanks to his cousin Lucina’s efforts, and Aversa’s group would be going around the outside of the village to cut off their retreat while Flavia and Anna’s soldiers penned the bandits in with Owain’s mob. It was a flawless plan, and one that Owain was thrilled to be a part of; it had been far too long, in his mind, since he’d felt this excitement.

They rounded the corner of one of the shacks that made up the majority of the buildings in the slums, the thin and winding roads having slowed the bandits’ progress greatly as they had become lost in the warren-like turns. Owain roared with a mixture of excitement and battle-rage as he spotted the enemy ahead of them, holding his sword high. He slowed, though, allowing the locals to charge ahead of him and Severa and engage the retreating bandits.

“What’s wrong now?” Severa huffed, crossing her arms.

Owain shook his head.

“I dunno,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I just got a feeling like… we missed something, that’s all.”

Severa scoffed. “If we miss something then Lucina, Flavia and Aversa will catch it. Stop wasting time worrying.”

“You’re… doing a great job,” she added quietly, looking away from him.

Owain couldn’t help but play dumb at his partner’s cute side.

“What was that last part?” he asked, sidling up to Severa.

“Nothing! I said you should stop daydreaming and catch up with the warriors! Gawds, use your sword hand to clean your ears out sometime!” she shouted, her face going crimson as she stomped off in the direction their horde had taken off in.

Owain shook his head, doing his best not to laugh and failing miserably as he jogged to catch up with the others. Severa still wasn’t true to his emotions, but then again he couldn’t really talk.

“Be still, sword hand! Before this day is out we will carve our names onto the bedrock of this world and all who see it shall tremble in fear!”

* * *

Aversa sighed and crossed her arms, sinking to a hip as she studied the slums spread out before them from the safety of the forest. Not too long ago a runner had come from Lucina and told her to move to intercept anyone that came out of the city’s slums facing the forest. She had decided to leave half of her archers behind, in the unlikely event that the units in the city actually needed support, so now she and Isaac were standing among the thirteen Feroxi archers and hunters that had opted to follow.

“What do you think?” she asked over her shoulder, her tone dripping with the insurmountable boredom she was feeling.

Isaac started, surprised that he was being called on for tactical advice from the woman that had once led Plegia’s entire army singlehandedly. An army that had still lost in the end, but she had still put up a good fight…

“A-about what, mistress?” he asked quickly, clapping his spellbook closed.

Aversa rolled her eyes and planted her hands on her hips impatiently, going back to watching the smoke rising from the slums in various places as the Feroxi chased the bandits around willy-nilly.

“Give me your thoughts on the situation,” she said exasperatedly. “I may not be your tactics instructor, but I’m still a tactician. I want to see what my dearest brother has taught you.”

Isaac nodded silently, a spike of anxiety eating into him at being put on the spot like this. He hated it when the magic instructed did this to the students; she loved catching her students on the wrong foot, especially in the advanced class. She said it was to help them expect the unexpected, but Isaac and Rance were in agreement that she was just a sadist.

“We’re clearly still acting as the rearguard,” the young man started, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “Given the local predisposition for chaotic behaviour placing us out here is a necessary tactic to ensure no stragglers escape.”

“And if this army were all Plegian?” Aversa asked, crossing her arms again.

Isaac swallowed, thinking quickly.

“There are more mages in a Plegian army,” Isaac said, thinking as quickly as he could. “Yet still not as many as a Ylissean group would field. In this situation I would have the mages and archers split up and join the groups assaulting the bandits in the town, and have a single regiment of footmen to watch the outskirts.”

Aversa gave the boy a malicious grin as she turned to him, and Isaac realised he’d clearly gotten something wrong. In the distance some of the Feroxi archers let out excited whoops and cheers as the first of the bandits attempted to make their escape in the woods, a sharp contrast to Isaac’s gloom.

“Wrong,” she announced. “Look at the space between our position in the forest and the city; you should have placed the archer regiments in the forest with a squad of footmen as backup.”

Isaac sighed, visibly deflating.

“However the rest of your planning concerning the mages was adequate,” Aversa added, watching as another small group of bandits attempted to flee the city, only to be brought down in a hail of arrow-fire.

Isaac perked up a little, the ghost of a smile reaching his lips before Aversa turned to him with a frown.

“Why are you not down there practicing your spells?” she snapped.

“Y-yes mistress! Sorry mistress!” Isaac cried, clasping his spellbook and making for the tree line where the archers were.

* * *

Lucina watched carefully over the Feroxi forces that were dragging the captured and wounded bandits to the central marketplace on Flavia’s orders. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the Khan to care for the prisoners, but in her future the remaining Feroxi warriors had been savage and merciless, and those present had just been invaded. In her experience ‘better safe than sorry’ was more than just a suggestion.

“It appears that they were in the process of leaving when we hit the town,” one of the junior officers reported to Flavia. “Most of them maintain they were hired as ‘bodyguards’.”

The Khan snorted next to Lucina, tapping the longsword Ragnell against her shoulder guard a few times in thought.

“Did they say who they were hired by?” Flavia asked, watching as more bandits were corralled into the growing horde in the middle of the square.

The officer shook her head. “No, Khan Flavia. Most of ‘em were probably hired by their direct superiors.”

“Find a leader,” Flavia ordered. “I want to know who and why they attacked a town in my territory.”

The officer practically shouted an affirmative before she darted off, hollering orders at the top of her lungs. Lucina noticed Flavia sag a little as they were left alone, the Khan looking much older than when they had fought against Grima together.

“I’m getting too old for this crap,” she sighed, turning to face Lucina as she echoed the younger woman’s thoughts.

“It’s pretty bold of them to be attacking outright like this,” Flavia said. “What do you think?”

Lucina shrugged. “I’m sorry, Khan Flavia, but I am still unfamiliar with the concepts behind banditry. In the future everyone knew that we had to work together to survive. But I think that we won’t know anything about what happened here until the investigation is done.”

Flavia sighed again, looking at the ground for a moment before a flash of colour caught her eye.

“Oh, there they are,” she commented nonchalantly, drifting over to talk to some more of her subordinates a moment before Lucina was practically tackled off her feet.

“O-Owain!” she shouted as her cousin barrelled into her, picking her up and spinning her around in a tight bear-hug. “What are you- put me down!”

Severa appeared behind the blonde man as he released her, Owain grinning ear to ear until Severa slapped him upside the head.

“Is that any way for a ‘hero of legend’ to be acting?” she asked, before turning to Lucina. “Hello, Lucina. You look good.”

The blue-haired woman nodded, casting a worried glance in her usually boisterous cousin’s direction as he stood smiling silently at her, his eyes bright and happy even if his voice was silent.

“Is everything alright, Owain?” she asked, concern evident in her voice.

Severa snorted before bursting into laughter as Owain’s face contorted into a frown, a hint of red tinging his cheeks when he looked away from the girls.

“He shouted himself hoarse urging on the locals,” Severa explained, still laughing.

Lucina let out a small giggle before she caught herself, cleared her throat, and smiled kindly at Owain.

“Perhaps you had best seek out a healer, Cousin,” she suggested. “The sight of a silent Owain is simply… wrong.”

“See, I’m not the only one that thinks so,” Severa added, elbowing him in the ribs.

The two women laughed at Owain’s discomfort, the swordsman eventually letting out a sigh and grinning along with the two old friends.

“It’s good to see you again, Luce,” Owain croaked, giving his cousin a lighter hug this time.

“Seriously, go find a healer,” Severa demanded, giving him a light shove. “Gawds… what would you do if I wasn’t around to worry about you?”

* * *

Robin resisted the urge to grin through his dishevelled hair, now back to its usual position in his face obscuring half of his vision, as the bandits that had been in the warehouse glared up at Panne lording over them as their impromptu jailor, chaffing at the bonds now holding all their hands behind their backs. They had surrendered without a fuss after Robin’s show of magical force, grumbling and cursing quietly as they were bound and left under the Taguel’s watchful glare. Some of Flavia’s warriors were on their way to take the prisoners into custody, but until then they were Panne’s problem.

The battle for the city was winding down now, too; most of the bandits that had moved in had been killed in the initial assault, although a few small groups had gone to ground on the city’s slums; Flavia was hunting them out now with Severa and Owain’s help while Aversa led the archers around the outer perimeter of the area to ensure that nothing got by them.

“So what’s in the box?” Robin asked again, kicking through the ash and slush that were the leftovers of his spell.

He and Gaius approached slowly, the slightly recuperated thief grinning ear to ear.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he assured the tactician. “Open it and find out.”

“Well now I just gotta know,” Rance muttered to Galle and Mari’ko, the three of them filing obediently behind the two Shepherds.

Galle rolled his eyes as Mari’ko silently followed, a brief flickering of her gaze in the Feroxi boy’s direction the only indication she had even heard him.

“I think it’s pretty safe to assume, then, that I’m about to find out why they decided to attack the city?” Robin asked Gaius, ignoring his students for the time being.

“C’mon already!” Rance practically exploded. “We ain’t getting any younger! Open the freakin’ box! Sir!”

Casting an amused grin over his shoulder Robin slowly approached the crate and laid both of his hands on top of it. There was a soft ruffling sound inside, similar to the sound that Robin had come to familiarize with the sensation of being yanked off the ground by either Sumia or Cordelia while they were riding their pegasai. Something was off, though. The contents of the box were giving off a much muskier, animal scent than a pegasus did.

_Wings, then?_ Robin thought, carefully removing the bolt from the latch and flipping it open. _Are these bandits smuggling juvenile pegasai or something?_

As Robin gingerly opened the crate, lowering the front panel down to the ground, the crate’s occupant let out a low growl.

Eyes widening Robin sucked in a breath as he crouched down, stabilizing himself with one hand still on the rim of the crate. He had seen a lot of amazing things in his lifetime; hell, he’d even assisted in killing a God, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer ludicrousness of what he was looking at.

An avian raptor’s head, similar to an eagle in appearance, stared at him with piercing green eyes as large, snow-white wings fluttered behind it as two taloned feet scraped threateningly at its wooden floor. However, from about the shoulders back the crate’s occupant stopped being a bird and had the body of a feline beast, its rear legs and hindquarters belonging on a lion rather than a bird. Similar in size to one of the hunting dogs that Robin had seen in Valm, the creature was obviously still a juvenile.

“Is this… really…” Robin stammered, looking in awe at the small creature.

“Yup,” Gaius said with a satisfied tone. “It’s a gryphon. I managed to sneak a peek into the other boxes, and I overheard the bandits saying to take this one last because he was the smallest.”

“So there’s more of them?” Robin asked.

Gaius nodded, Panne glaring warily at the small creature from the thief’s side while the three students all craned their necks to get a better look at the creature.

If pegasai could be considered uncommon and wyverns could similarly be considered rare, then gryphons were almost as unheard of as fictional unicorns. Said to long ago have gone extinct, there were tavern stories about seeing them in the wild, occasionally catching glimpses of the long-thought-extinct creatures through trees in the rugged northern forests or eastern Ylissean mountain ranges. Robin was unsure why, exactly, they had become so rare. Pegasai made better mounts, and wyverns were apparently more of a challenge to hunt, so why had gryphons faded to obscurity and legend? He wasn’t sure, but looking at the timid creature now he could see why they were considered by so many to be treasures; even hunched up and quivering in fear the little gryphon exuded an aura of majestic dominance.

“Rance, throw me some jerky,” Robin said, never taking his eyes off the gryphon.

“What? Why?” the Feroxi boy asked, obediently digging around his pack for some. “And more importantly, how did you know I had some on me?”

“Because I know my students,” Robin answered, catching the small hunk of dried meat and offering it to the gryphon.

“C’mon out, little guy,” Robin cooed. “No one’s going to hurt you…”

There was a tense moment where Robin held his breath as he eyed off with the little creature, doing his best to project a non-threatening aura. Just as he was about to sigh in defeat the gryphon slowly began to creep forward, sniffing warily. As he reached the jerky he gave it a thorough inspection before snapping it in his beak and retreating to the corner of his crate.

“Aw, he likes you!” Rance laughed.

“I think that, objectively, the gryphon might just like the meat,” Galle pointed out.

Mari’ko moved forward, apparently oblivious to her classmate’s discussion, crouching down next to Robin with her hands resting on her knees. She quirked her head to one side while looking at the gryphon before reaching out an open hand to it, never breaking eye contact with the creature. Robin watched with awe as the small gryphon crept forward again, this time sniffing carefully at Mari’ko’s hand before nuzzling gently up to it, the way a house cat might have.

“I don’t believe it,” Galle muttered.

“Okay, so I guess the Princess made a friend?” Rance shrugged.

Robin quirked a brow as the gryphon crept forward a little more, Mari’ko putting a more strength into her stroking of the creature’s feathered head and neck. For a moment her face softened and she muttered something in her native tongue, and the gryphon leapt bodily into her arms. Mari’ko was almost bowled over by the large creature, but apparently it was lighter than it looked, as she regained her balance and looked with a blank face to her teacher.

“Okay,” Robin shrugged, standing up straight. “I guess he’s your problem now.”

* * *

Far in the south, near the border mountain range that separated Plegia and Ylisse laid the Ylissean city state of Themis. Having been razed nearly a decade ago by the ‘Mad King’ of Plegia Gangrel, the once beautiful city had bounced back surprisingly fast. Where Ylisstol had a tendency for building upwards and filling the city with great spires and towers, and the city state of Jagen far in the mountainous east tended to simply build atop the mountains or remain in their already constructed forts, Themis was a squat city that spread outwards onto the fields surrounding it. A little further south the Themisian Flood Plains made the perfect place for the horsemasters to train and breed the mounts that the region was famous for, and horses featured heavily in the City’s iconography. Under the careful eye of Duke Roark, left in the position of power by the late Duke Themis during the war with Plegia, the city had recovered its former glory and then-some. The region’s chief magistrate, Lady Maribelle and her husband General Kellam had both had much to do with the rebuilding process, too, and in the last few years the city had even become a hub of trade between the two neighbouring nations. In fact, much of the trade conducted between Ylisse and the Valmese states also occurred in Themis, making the city irreplaceable to the Haildom.

Or so everyone kept saying. The truth was that, to the Highborn Merchant Class that occupied the city’s finer districts, the place itself didn’t matter. They would gladly do business in a Plegian swamp if it meant greater profits.

Such merchants had been quick to seize power in the chaos that had occurred after the continual warring, first with Plegia and then with Valm, paying no heed at all to how close their world came to crashing around them when Grima was revived. They only thought of longevity of their profits, and that was how they would remain. It wasn’t love or friendship that made the world turn, but greed and coin.

That was what Idallia, the eldest daughter of the Rommel Merchant House and current head of the family, told herself as she strode down the halls of the Themis Merchant’s Guild. Her long, pale purple hair fluttered delicately behind her, the only concession she made to her gender; everything else about her spoke purely of practicality, so much to the point that in the past she had been mistaken for a man. A tight leather fest covered a simple cream blouse, and dark workers pants, while of a high quality, could not be disguised as anything besides their true form. She nudged the black rimmed glasses she wore further up her small, thin nose as her immaculate work boots clattered on the smooth stone with every step, the sound echoed by the continual presence of her wiry clerk, Hin’rath. The scraggly man’s unkempt shoulder-length black hair and vacant gaze belied just how dangerous a mind he was, but in reality Idallia kept the man around more for his eidetic memory than any other reason; his ability to memorize anything she put in front of him and then recall it at a moment’s notice was more than useful to her as a merchant. The Rommel Clan held shares in most of the businesses in the city, if not owning them outright; there was a lot she needed to keep on top of, and Hin’rath’s ability saved her a lot of reading.

Usually Idallia was considered to be quite an attractive woman; however her normally pretty features were pulled down in a tight frown at present as she stormed through the guild hall, prompting the lower-ranking clerks wandering around to leap out of her way out of fear of earning her ire. While there was no basis for her terrifying reputation, there were always rumours and stories…

“My lady, perhaps you should calm down before entering the meeting,” Hin’rath suggested dully, the man’s monotone voice like the sound of dry leafs of paper rubbing together.

“Shut up, Hin’rath,” Idallia growled, her tone warning and her fists clenching.

“I would just like to point out what happened last time you attended such a meeting in a foul mood…” the clerk sighed, stopping abruptly as his employer came to a halt.

She cast a withering glare over her shoulder, not needing to be reminded of the sheer size of the contract her foolish youth had cost her during her early days as head of the household, before returning to stomping through the hall in fuming silence. Hin’rath simply sighed before following his mistress, shaking his head slightly at her impulsive attitude.

And why wouldn’t she be mad? She had just lost an important foothold in Regna Ferox thanks to the cheap labour she had hired being mistaken for ‘bandits’. If this ever came back to her it would destroy her Clan’s public image, and no amount of explaining would be able to make it go away. She wasn’t coming out of this debacle empty handed, though; five juvenile gryphons, creatures long thought to be extinct, were en-route to the city as she fumed, the sixth having been captured by a local force of warriors. Losing one sixth of her profits wasn’t all that bad, though; she would still easily be able to recoup her losses from the Silva debacle by selling the creatures to the nobles that collected such rarities.

Idallia stopped in front of one of the nondescript doors that lined the hallway, taking a deep breath to compose herself. It wasn’t often that all of the Guild leaders gathered in one city, so she needed to present herself accordingly as the Representative of the Themis branch of the Guild.

Slightly calmer, Idallia pushed the door open and strode in, knowing that there was no need to knock while she was among equals. As she took in the familiar sight of the four other merchants sitting waiting for her Hin’rath closed the door behind her before darting forward to draw out her chair.

Three older men and one woman of middle-age looked to her expectantly as she plastered her best fake smile on her face.

“Good morning, Alvin. Good morning Mar’kale. Good morning Abdul. And good morning, Lady Anna.”

The four senior merchants returned her greetings as Idallia took her seat. They were all representatives of their certain area of the world’s merchant guild, however each man or woman at the table had begun life as a peddler or apprentice, and each of them still had keen minds and wits. These meetings always tended to exhaust the younger Idallia, but the fact that she was on the council at such a young age was truly an honour.

“I pray we wrap this up quickly,” Mar’kale growled through a thick beard, always the first to complain. “This city stinks of horse.”

The oldest among them, Mar’kale had started life as a blacksmith in Chon’sin, choosing to go into business after his apprenticeship ended. Now the man owned almost every smith in the small nation, not to mention having many trade deals all over the world for his goods. It had been a long time since the big man had swung a hammer himself, but he still retained his bulk beneath his homeland’s native robes from his days working the bellows.

“That has to be some sort of record,” Alvin chuckled, the Ylisstolan merchant grinning to Abdul. “Barely twenty seconds and already complaining. How long did it take him to start moaning about the heat when we met in Plegia Capital?”

“Nearly five minutes,” the last man at the table said, his bushy black eyebrow quirking almost all the way up to the strange wrapped head-dress he wore.

Alvin and Abdul had been in business together for a long time, despite their respective homelands’ quarrels. Alvin, the fruit merchant, figured there was always demand for fresh produce and lumber in a desert nation, while Abdul surmised that rare spices and exotic bric-a-bracks from his nation would always be welcome across borders. Both men were in their mid-fifties, and while the slimmer Alvin wore a crisp suit Abdul sported long, flowing robes more suited for his home in the desert. While Alvin had spent some time in the Ylissean military, specifically during the crusade that saw Exalt Emmeryn thrust into power, Abdul was a merchant through-and-through.

“Now, now, boys,” Anna chided jokingly. “Let’s not gang up on the old man just because he’s… old. If you were bald like that you would be cranky, too.”

The older woman cast Idallia a wink, her long red tresses beginning to grey at the temples but her mind still as sharp as when she had been a travelling peddler, the type she now represented on the guild council. Although ‘Anna’ was technically the merchant’s Clan name, she and her family all chose to sport it as their given name, offering no end to the grief of anyone that had to deal with them on a semi-regular basis. The Anna matriarch was similarly dressed to Idallia, wearing red and yellow working clothes under a deep red silk shawl that had apparently been a souvenir one of her nieces had brought back from Chon’sin.

Idallia sighed quietly as the old man harrumphed, responding to the teasing by firing shots back at the other merchants the way they always did. She tuned out as the four older merchants descended into the same bickering play-fighting they always did, silently wondering how her Grandfather had been able to stomach dealing with the childish fools.

“Curious, what is happening in Regna Ferox right now,” Abdul said, snapping Idallia out of her reverie.

“I keep saying we need a representative from the north,” Alvin sighed. “Especially now that things are so unstable up there.”

“I get periodic reports from my niece,” Anna pointed out. “The Khans are still maintaining their power. Barely.”

“How is this going to effect the prices of lumber, though?” Mar’kale pondered out loud.

“It shouldn’t be too bad,” Idallia chimed in. “Silva’s a small supplier; most of the Plegian and west-Ylisseans tend to buy from the Ylissean mills, anyway.”

The four others nodded agreement, and Idallia almost let out a sigh of relief.

“Strange, though, that the bandits would occupy the city rather than sack it and retreat,” Alvin pointed out, leaning on the table.

Idallia felt her tension rise again, desperately trying to come up with a way to change the subject. Fortunately for her, it looked like she wouldn’t have to as Mar’kale let out a hearty laugh.

“What are you worried about, boy?” the Chon’sinian all but bellowed in his mirth. “Do you have some secret wine-groves in the north we don’t know about?”

“Bah, if only,” Alvin groaned, earning more laughter from the rest of the table. “It’s been a harsh year for the wineries; it will going to go down as a rare vintage in the future.”

“Because he didn’t make enough to save as well as drink,” Anna added cheekily.

“Oh, like your wine cellar’s any smaller than mine,” Alvin grumbled.

Idallia covertly sighed through her nose, deciding that things had been far too close. She would have to be careful who she sent to do her work abroad in the future.

* * *

Idallia sighed later that afternoon, sinking into one of the armchairs in her study. As always, Hin’rath was at her side, filling a fine crystal glass with her favourite brandy to take the edge off the day.

“Your brother has returned to the city, mistress,” the clerk reported, his tone as bored as ever.

“Have him meet me here,” Idallia sighed, taking a long sip from her glass. “Leave the bottle, though.”

Hin’rath nodded, placing the crystal bottle full of the fine amber liquid on the nearby table before scurrying from the room.

Idallia sighed again, sinking deeper into her chair. She was seriously considering killing her brother for being unable to control the mercenaries in Silva. They needed the foothold in the north for the next stage of their plan, and they needed to establish it now. The Khan Tournament was only a few short years away, and the Rommel Clan needed to be well-established in Regna Ferox by then.

She perked up slightly as footsteps echoed outside her study, sitting up properly in her armchair just as her brother burst into the room, still filthy from the road.

“Hello, sister,” he said, his voice betraying how bone-tired he was.

Idallia decided that she wouldn’t kill him, but she wouldn’t be gentle about this either. Her crystal glass shattered on the wall beside her brother’s head as she crossed the space, slugging the younger man in the jaw in her rage.

“Dammit, Maris, you almost cost us everything!” she roared in his face.

Maris didn’t flinch, although his eyebrow rose a little at his sister’s blow. He was the warrior in the family; easily a foot taller than Idallia and twice as broad. He had served among the Themisian Light Cavalry during the war with Valm while Idallia had only been a reservist, guarding the camps and running for her life during the flight from Steiger. Still, though, the younger man respected his sister, and knew he had screwed up royally in the north.

“We can recoup the losses with the gryphons,” he assured her. “Even just selling one or two will easily cover what we lost-”

“That’s not the point!” Idallia shouted, running a hand over her face as she turned away from Maris’ impassive features. “I told you right at the outset to be ‘subtle’! Do you even know what that word means!?”

Maris scoffed as he crossed the room, pouring two more glasses of brandy and offering one to his sister.

“I’m not stupid, sister,” he told her. “Here. Take a drink. Relax. You’ll live longer. I could use one, too… Do you have any idea how unpleasant it was to sneak out of Silva by wading through the river? I lost three men to hypothermia.”

“However, it was worth it. We already have buyers for two of the gryphons,” Maris went on, pacing to the window overlooking the Themis marketplace below them. “Hell, I almost want to keep one for myself.”

Idallia sunk back into her chair, glaring at the glass in her hand before downing the contents in one gulp.

“Then keep one,” she sighed. “You’re the cavalryman without a horse. And you did find the gryphons. Keep one as a mount if you really want, but sell the rest.”

Maris nodded, leaning against the window frame and grinning at his reflection. “I knew there was a reason I agreed to join the family business.”

Idallia groaned as Hin’rath materialized at her shoulder and poured her another drink, choosing not to mention that if Maris hadn’t gone hunting for the gryphons in the first place and stuck to their plan then the ‘bandits’ wouldn’t have gotten bored in Silva and wrecked the place.

“I suppose, in the long run, we can just buy the Silva Mills,” Idallia groaned into her glass.

“There’s your optimism again,” Maris grinned, draining his own glass. “But we have one more problem to deal with.”

“Lovely,” Idallia sighed. “What now?”

“Khan Flavia herself led the Feroxi forces that retook the city,” Maris told her. “And she wasn’t alone. Grandmaster Robin himself was with her, and he brought his school’s entire staff with him.”

Idallia practically leapt out of her chair at this revelation, almost dropping her glass in the process.

“What?” she breathed. “He was… there? I thought he was done with politics!”

“Apparently he wanted to get some experience for some of his students,” Maris went on. “We need to find some way to get him out of the picture, though, if we want to carry out our objectives.”

Idallia nodded in agreement, thinking quickly. What they needed was something that would distract him for a long period of time. The Rommel Clan didn’t have the resources or allies to instigate civil unrest and start a war, but they did have a small standing army, with a lot of veteran soldiers trained in covert operations to make use of.

“Burn it down,” she said at last, still staring into her glass.

“What?” Maris asked evenly, moving to stand in front of his sister.

Idallia didn’t answer at first, draining the rest of her drink slowly this time and letting the alcohol burn its way down to her stomach, savouring the flavour of the drink.

“The school,” she said after she lowered her glass. “While Robin’s away. Burn it to the ground.”

* * *

Maris let out a harsh sigh as he checked the straps on his saddle one last time before rising back up, running a gloved hand through his short light-purple hair.

His sister, as always, was right. They needed to take Robin out of the equation if they were to move on the north, and the best way to do that would be distracting him. According to their reports it had taken the Grandmaster nearly two years to properly establish his school; it would be cutting things fine if it took him that short an amount of time again, but they could work with that window of time.

Idallia, as always, had been right. The quickest way to solve this mess was to burn down the Tactician School in Nauta. Not just do ‘some’ damage, but to raze it to the ground so he had to move entirely. It wasn’t the only way, but it was the fastest, and time was not something that the Rommel Clan had a lot of.

All around him in the small stables the other members of his party, nine of the best soldiers that his sister employed, were making their own preparations. They were all veterans of Valm, like Maris was, although some wore their experience a little plainer to see than he did; scars criss-crossed bare arms and snaked up necks and jaws; two men both wore eye-patches, and one moved with an obvious limp. Like him, they were all older men; despite pushing thirty Maris was still the youngest man in the group, the oldest being in his early fifties if Maris remembered correctly.

But they were veterans, each and every one, and more importantly they were all loyal to Maris and his sister, and would carry out their orders without hesitation.

“Ten against the old Grandmaster?” one of the men muttered. “What did we do to get stuck with the suicide mission?”

“You can relax, Adrik,” the oldest man said in a calm voice. “Robin’s not going to be there. None of the teachers are.”

“It still takes three days of non-stop riding to get there, Maurice,” Adrik complained. “And they’re a lot closer than we are.”

“So we torch the fort and run, just like Steiger,” Maris said, checking his sword before sliding it back into its sheathe with an audible clacking sound.

“I don’t like having to do this to the old Grandmaster, either,” he went on. “But if we don’t want to have to deal with him later, we need to get in and distract him now. Put a little fear into him. Make him realise that the days of following the old order are over.”

“Of course, sir,” Adrik said, growing quiet again.

Maris nodded to Maurice, the oldest man grinning slightly. They had been part of the same squad back in Valm, so knew each other’s habits well by now. The only reason Maurice hadn’t retired yet was because Maris had requested him personally for the Rommel’s private army.

“Right boys, let’s get this over with,” Maris said, swinging up into the saddle of one of the young horses that had been commissioned to replace those that had been lost in Valm. “Mount up. We ride to the Longfort, pick up our supplies from our contacts on the other side, and make for Nauta. Don’t fall behind.”

The other men all followed suit, the sudden explosion of movement making Maris’ mount tense up. With soothing noises he stroked the horse’s neck, frowning. It just wasn’t the same as his old partner, but then again nothing ever would be. Satisfied now that his mount was calmer Maris dug his heels into its sides, urging it out into the night. They had a long way to go, after all.


	5. Chapter 5

 “Argh, I can’t believe we have to help out with the rebuilding,” Rance groaned, shielding his eyes from the harsh afternoon sun.

The Feroxi boy grunted as he lifted a stack of timber up to the waiting carpenters that were fixing the outer wall of the small shop before he turned and moved aside for the next person to deposit their load.

Ever since the battle had ended the four tactician-apprentices had been ordered to help out rebuilding the city ‘however they could’, which of course had meant manual labour. They were presently all working in the ruined central markets, where Rance and Mari’ko had turned the tide against the invaders, with Lucina supervising their efforts.

“Aren’t these your countrymen?” Galle grunted, depositing a much smaller stack next to Rance’s.

“Naw, I’m a Westerner,” Rance sighed. “Although I suppose it’s a decent workout at the least…”

“That’s the spirit!” Isaac said cheerily from behind them. “Always look on the bright side!”

Galle and Rance both turned curiously as the Ylissean boy came up behind them, their faces turning to shocked disbelief as they saw that he was carrying more than three times the timber on one shoulder then either other boy put together. Mari’ko was at his shoulder, carrying a small crate of nails with her usual neutral expression in place, although the young gryphon coiling around her feet was expressive enough for the both of them.

“What?” Isaac asked, shrugging before practically tossing the wood he was carrying up to the waiting carpenters. “I used to be a blacksmith’s apprentice; lumber is a lot lighter than iron ore.”

“Right…” Galle said hesitantly, quirking one brow at his classmate’s apparent freakish strength.

“Grah! Not good enough, Rance! Must! Get! Stronger!” Rance screamed at himself, racing back towards where the lumber had been delivered.

“What’s with him?” Isaac asked curiously, drooping to give the gryphon an affectionate pat on the head.

“I think his manhood’s been injured,” Galle deadpanned.

“Ouch,” Isaac hissed, wincing in sympathy. “I get that when I ride.”

“No, I meant… seriously? I didn’t mean… ah forget it,” Galle sighed. “But still, rebuilding? I thought we were tacticians, not tradesmen…”

“We are increasing our empathy for our soldiers,” Mari’ko said tonelessly, repeating what Robin had told them as she carefully delivered the nails in her arms.

“She’s right,” Lucina said, appearing behind Galle with a sizeable stack of timber on her own shoulder. “You should always remember that the battle doesn’t end just because the fighting did. Nor did that pile disappear just because you delivered one stack.”

Mari’ko nodded empathetically as Isaac grinned a little, already moving back to where Rance was shouting orders to the closest workers to throw more planks on his shoulder, despite the fact that his legs were clearly shaking and about to give out. Lucina deposited her own stack before dusting off her blue tunic and making her own way back, leaving Galle standing alone with the little gryphon staring up at him accusingly.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” Galle groaned, shoulders drooping as he trudged back after the others. “Man, even the stupid bird’s giving me the guilt trip now…”

Trudging over to the others with his head held low Galle almost stepped into one of the numerous Feroxi locals helping them out, stepping out of the big man’s path at the last second with a mumbled apology.

Stopping for a moment to glance over his shoulder in surprise, Galle spotted a strange mark branded into the man’s bicep. Glancing around he noticed that a few of the other men working in the square had similar brands burned into their flesh, too.

“Hey Rance,” he asked curiously, coming up to where the local boy was dragging his feet under an impossibly large load of timber. “Explain the brands to me.”

“What, those?” Rance groaned under his burden. “No idea.”

“They are warnings that those people were once convicted of banditry or theft,” Lucina explained. “With the population so damaged in the last decade the death penalty seemed wasteful to the leaders of the world, and they each came up with their own response instead. The Khans adopted this method, often used in Ylisse.”

Galle looked closer at one of the brands on a burly worker as he passed by; in a circle cross was burned into his flesh, one arm longer than the other and both tilted in a sort of lopsided ‘x’ shape; a symbol that he had committed wrong but was trying to atone. It seemed foolish to Galle; once a criminal, always a criminal in his mind, but Lady Lucina wasn’t wrong when she said the population was dwindling.

Galle’s ruminations were cut short, though, when Rance finally collapsed under the weight of the lumber he was carrying; dropping it right onto Isaac and Galle.

“Argh! Idiot!” the Plegian boy shouted. “Why do I always get punished for your stupidity!?”

“I’m under here too, you know!” Isaac groaned.

* * *

Robin leaned with arms crossed against a wall of one of the more whole buildings in its shadow, watching his wife working with their students with a small smile on his face. He wasn’t shirking his duties by any means; he had just spent the better part of the morning going through detailed plans for Silva’s reconstruction with its mayor and Khan Flavia, and he was taking a breather before going back to help organise the rebuilding of the lower slums that had taken some damage from the bandits’ overzealous retreat.

“Haven’t you got better things to be doing?” Flavia asked, coming up behind him.

The Khan’s heavy gait suggested she was just as tired as Robin, yet she still wore full armour and carried Ragnell around on her shoulder.

“Weren’t you supposed to give that sword back?” Robin quipped, shooting her a cheeky grin over his shoulder.

“Wasn’t it you that told me that only idiots answer questions with other questions?” Flavia asked, crossing her arms and sinking back to a hip.

“Er… damn, how am I supposed to argue with me,” Robin laughed.

“So?” Flavia prompted impatiently.

Robin shrugged in response. “The mayor looked like he needed a break. I told him I’d take a breather and come back in the afternoon when-”

“That’s not what I meant,” Flavia cut him off. “This is Regna Ferox business. You should go back to your school before Chrom finds out. You know he gets… antsy when he thinks you’re working for me.”

Robin glanced over his shoulder at Flavia’s suggestion. He knew where she was coming from; in fact it was something they had discussed before. Robin’s school took students from all over the world, meaning that he did his best to show that he was a neutral party in all political matters. In his mind remaining properly neutral was harder than actually actively participating in politics, but it was his duty if he was going to train the next generation of tacticians.

Robin shrugged again in answer. “Maybe tomorrow. The kids look like they’re having fun.”

His grin widened as he watched Rance buckle under the weight of the wood he was carrying, toppling over and dropping at least half of the bundle on Isaac and Galle while Mari’ko stepped gracefully out of the way. All the while Lucina was watching on with a relaxed smile as the young gryphon danced around their ankles. She wore the same look of pride and happiness that she often did while with her daughter, and Robin was loathe to take her away from a situation she could be so relaxed in. A couple more days wouldn’t hurt anyone.

“You know that Chrom’s going to get pissy if he thinks I’m making you work for me,” Flavia repeated, moving to stand next to Robin as she held a palm to the side of her head.

“He just misses me,” Robin chuckled. “I’ll go see him in about a month after things simmer down, and he won’t even remember that I was here. Once we finish drinking, anyway.”

“I’m glad you came, though,” Flavia admitted. “Those kids are something else, too. You can tell who’s been teaching them.”

“Thanks, Flavia,” Robin said, genuinely touched by his friend and old drinking partner’s praise. “That means a lot.”

“I was talking about Lucina and Panne teaching ‘em to fight!” the Khan laughed, slapping Robin on the back a few times as she guffawed.

“Gee, thanks,” Robin groaned.

* * *

Idallia let out an exhausted sigh as she shuffled through her villa at the end of the day.

It had been another day of arguing with local lords and nobles about prices her clan was offering them; bigoted old men that refused to deal with Plegia and sneered at her for being a woman in her position. They annoyed her to the point of giving her a small migraine.

Hin’rath, as attentive to her needs as always, was currently in the kitchen preparing her evening meal. Idallia refused to squander money on servants when she was only one woman; Hin’rath, the gardener and the two maids she employed were more than enough for her needs, and Maris cared for the horses himself. Her villa was small anyway, and having so many staff around would just give her an even bigger headache.

She walked into her study looking forward to the bottle of whiskey that she kept in her top drawer, harsher than her habitual wine or brandy but necessary after a day like she had had, only to be brought up short when she spotted it already sitting on her desk next to a pair of expensive-looking soft leather shoes.

“I have to admit,” Alvin said, the older merchant propping his feet up on the edge of her desk and swirling the alcohol in his glass, “For such a small villa and so few staff you still have good taste, my dear.”

For a moment Idallia almost lost her composure and gaped at the man in her study, her private oasis that even her brother was forbidden from entering, but years of practice made her clamp down on these feelings as her merchant side took over.

“Alvin, to what do I owe the pleasure,” Idallia asked, plastering her best fake smile on her face.

“And more importantly,” she added, crossing the room slowly and nudging Alvin’s feet off her table, “Why hasn’t Hin’rath killed you for trespassing yet?”

Alvin snorted, swirling the whisky again before taking another sip and letting out an appreciative sigh. Idallia rolled her eyes, giving in to temptation and pouring herself a glass.

“Ah, no one knows booze like the Feroxi, right?” he said, giving the angry woman a grin. “When it comes to wine, though, I’d bet my last copper that you have a cellar full of my product.”

Idallia grimaced as she drained the glass in her hand, hesitating to admit that the older merchant was absolutely right.

“What do you want, Alvin,” she said, her tone becoming dangerous.

“Ooh, I’m obviously right,” the older man laughed, setting his empty glass down and finally rising from Idallia’s favourite chair.

“I just wanted to talk to you about a small… business proposition,” he added, strolling over to the large window overlooking her modest garden. “Concerning a certain logging town called Silva, up north.”

“Hold on,” Idallia sighed, reaching for the bottle again. “Judging from that tone of voice I’m going to need another drink first.”

* * *

Van squinted in the afternoon sunlight, a small smile rising to his face as he watched over the youngest of Robin’s students while they practiced drills with their chosen weapons. It was the last class of the day; so far they had studied basic tactics and elemental magic theory that morning, and after lunch had been the ever-popular fitness-hour. The day was winding down, and as he watched the children work so hard Van was happy to say he was warming to being a teacher, even if it was only a temporary posting.

He strolled through the students swinging their light practice weapons at each other, tapping his long, thin, double-bladed sword-staff against the single blue pauldron he wore on his right shoulder as he walked. It was an esoteric weapon, one that had made him a laughingstock in his early days with it, but after three years of not losing a sparring match a lot of opinions changed. According to Mari’ko it was a weapon from her homeland Chon’sin, and it wouldn’t surprise Van if that was true; however he had gone to painstaking lengths to craft his own style for the weapon from the Ylissean sword-arts.

In all honesty, Van was nervous about his position as a teacher, but it was something that Lady Sahiri had asked him to do; something that he had volunteered for, despite knowing it would be difficult. He was already behind the advance class anyway, even though he was the same age, but that didn’t matter either. What mattered to him was doing his upmost to ensure that Robin wasn’t disappointed when he returned.

“Hey Van!” one of the students called out, a young girl from Ylisstol holding a wooden practice sword. “Can you c’mere a minute?”

“What’s up, Sasha?” he asked as he crossed the training ground, slipping between the students diligently sparring in the forms that Lucina had taught them.

As Van approached them he planted his sword-staff in the ground. The girl puffed out her cheeks, glaring evilly at her sparring partner sitting in the dirt at her feet; one of the few boys from Imperial Valm, Ard, was holding his arm and glaring back up at Sasha with a similar expression on his face to her own.

“Sasha, what did Lady Lucina say about watching your power while you spar?” Van asked patiently.

“Go easy on the smaller students,” the girl muttered dejectedly.

“And Ard, what does Robin say we do when we get knocked down?” he asked the boy, offering him his hand.

“We pull ourselves back up no matter what,” Ard parroted, taking Van’s hand. “Because there’s always people counting on us.”

“Right,” Van said with an easy smile, patting both of the students on the head before turning his head and raising his voice to the other students. “I’d say it’s just about dinner time; why don’t we all head inside and get cleaned up?”

A weak collective cheer went up as the younger students sagged, worn out from their efforts that day. Van had worried at first he was working them too hard, but Sahiri had assured him that he was doing just fine.

“Remember to put your practice weapons back on the rack, then wash your hands and meet Sahiri at the refractory,” Van instructed them, crossing his arms and sinking to a hip, still smiling.

As the last of the students trickled back into the fort Van’s smile finally dropped as he reached for his weapon, tugging it out of the ground and turning to face the nearby forest.

“The last of the Taguel has been teaching me to track,” he called out. “If you thought you were being sneaky, you were wrong. Come out where I can see you.”

There was a tense moment of silence, a strong wind kicking up dust in the small clearing and flapping Van’s yellow scarf around his shoulders. Just as he was preparing to call out again three men wearing uniform black tunics and leathers with faces covered by cloth masks stepped out of the forest, all wielding Ylissean swords. One, a man with a jagged scar snaking up underneath a plain eye-patch, had a short-bow strapped to his back.

“What can I do for you?” Van asked cautiously, his hand tightening around his weapon’s handle. “My master has a policy of never turning travellers away, but you look more dressed for war.”

“What would you know of war, boy?” the stranger at the front asked in an Ylissean accent, his voice muffled by the mask he wore.

“Enough to know you’re not getting past me,” Van growled, deciding that the men were indeed a threat.

He took a deep breath, sinking into a ready stance and holding his sword-staff out horizontally in front of him one handed. He slipped his left foot back and lowered himself, raising his open hand out behind his hip, perfectly balancing him.

The three men chuckled to themselves, one of them stepping forward to the boy barring their path and raising his sword. Van moved first, though, spinning forward and striking out with his double blades in a spinning attack that pushed the man back towards the other two. The three men eyed the student-tactician, clearly re-appraising his threat level as he moved back to his ready stance.

That was why Van had chosen to fight with a sword-staff while everyone else in his class back home had opted for more conventional weapons; crowd control. A sword-staff was for fighting more than one opponent, for times when a soldier was out-numbered.

Times like this, being faced down by three bigger, older and more experienced warriors, were what Van trained for.

“Cute toy, kid,” one of the men growled.

The three strangers, each with a sword in hand now, began to spread out, trying to flank Van as he stepped back towards the fort. He didn’t have to beat them; just keep them busy until Sahiri or the guards showed up. That was all.

Van darted forward again, spinning low at the man in the centre of the formation and lashing out with a high kick at the one on the right as he went. He knocked the sword of the centre-man downwards, stepping back rather than following through on the attack, though, when the man on the left moved to defend his partner.

“Kid’s got moves,” the man with the eye-patch admitted grudgingly.

“We don’t gotta kill him,” the oldest of the three shrugged. “Just keep him out of the way until-”

There was a loud roar behind Van, cutting the stranger off mid-sentence. Ignoring the fact that three armed, dangerous men were behind him Van spun, his jaw falling and eyes widening as he saw smoke rising from the fort. Three more explosions went off at various points around the fort, four plumes of acrid black smoke rising from Van’s home.

“Bastards!” he roared, spinning back towards the three strangers, blades-first.

* * *

Inside the fort it was pandemonium as Sahiri tried to maintain order among the remaining panicked students.

“We need to put out the fires!” she roared over the students. “You’ve all had training with wind magic! Find a blaze and suck the air away from it! And where are the damn guards!?”

“They were out at the main gate!” one of the older children shouted as he darted past, a wind tome securely under his arm as he led a small team of the younger children towards the nearest explosion.

Sahiri cursed under her breath, loosening the tight collar on her black tunic as she knelt down in front of the child that had become her second shadow in the last few weeks.

“Emm, I need you to be a good girl and go wait for me in your Papa’s study,” Sahiri said firmly, her hands resting on the girl’s shoulders.

Emm nodded wordlessly a few times before taking off like a startled hare in the direction of her parents’ apartment, where hopefully she would have the presence of mind to remain hidden until Sahiri came for her. Sahiri was already moving before the child disappeared from the refractory, practically leaping down the stairs and storming through the halls towards the entry hall. The armoury was just off the main hall, so she would find a weapon there, and-

Another loud explosion almost threw the former Royal Guard off her feet, closely followed by two more. Holding onto the wall to steady herself as dust rained down from over-head Sahiri shook the stars from her eyes, her ears ringing as everything else became muted. A gust of hot air hit her back, and judging from the screaming some of the students had been caught in at least one of the explosions. Shaking her head again Sahiri stumbled along the wall, nearly falling as she came out into the entry-hall to find a scene that was all-too-familiar to the seasoned soldier.

The five guards that Robin employed to defend the fort were holding the hall against a force of what appeared to be local bandits. She shook her head a third time, steeling herself as she darted to the opposite side of the hall and into the small armoury that the guards kept. Her usual equipment was upstairs in her room; her ornate Royal Guard plate armour and her favourite spear were too far away to make use of. Instead she grabbed a lighter lance with a head of simple iron and a small wooden buckler before darting back out to assist the guards.

With a roar Sahiri smashed into the bandits from the side, spinning and lashing out with her lance and buckler, clearing the space before the beleaguered guards. A tired cheer went up from the men as they closed ranks around the unarmoured Sahiri, letting her drop back.

“Status report!” she shouted to the nearest guard.

The man, Ait’o, who had come to the school as Mariko’s escort and decided to permanently stay, looked up at her with fear in his eyes.

“They came out of nowhere,” he said, an edge of panic in his voice. “Just as the youngest class came rushing in for dinner the bandits followed them. Van’s… still outside. And Dez said she saw more bandits on the north side.”

Sahiri muttered an old curse from her village as she spun on her heel.

“Push the bandits back and bring Van back in here!” she ordered over her shoulder. “A couple bandits won’t be able to put him down, but he will be overwhelmed. I’m going to check the north side and come right back. Keep things going here until I return.”

* * *

Maris sighed, running a hand through his hair as he strode through the smoke and dust from the bomb that had made his group’s entrance to the fort. He had lost a few days, travelling closer to Silva to pick up the last of the bandits he had hired, but judging from the fact that the fort was abandoned around them it had been a good call.

“Bring em in,” he called, waving the six other men forward.

He and each of his men had a large, heavy pack on his back, containing a mixture of powders from Chengshi that would make an explosion that could destroy even stone. It had set his dear sister back quite a bit to acquire when it had come on the market but, like Maris, Idallia knew a useful tool when she saw it.

“Split into groups of two, start in the basement and work your way up,” Maris said as the black-cloaked men moved past him. “Get in, get it done, get out. Don’t get bogged down fighting. Break through and head back to the forest.”

“Maurice, you’re with me,” he added, halting the older man. “We’re going to start from the top.”

“Right-o, then, Cap’n,” the old man said, his voice strained from his heavy burden.

The five other men hurried south, to where the entrance to the basement storehouses was supposed to be. Maris grinned at his genius; as much as his sister lover her theatrics, there was simply no burning down an old fort. You could _knock_ it down, with the correct application of explosives, though, and all of these old Feroxi forts had the same structural weaknesses in their basements; take out the load-bearing pillars and a few of the more important walls on the first floor, and the entire building went down like a house of cards. It was something Maris had done a few times during the pre-war border disputes with Regna Ferox when he’d still been a cadet. Of course back then it was done with oil and mages, not soldiers and mystic powder…

Maris smirked a little, hitching his heavy back up a little higher.

“This making you feel old, too?” he asked Maurice over his shoulder.

“That some kinda joke?” the older man huffed. “Look at me, boy! Everything I do makes me feel old!”

Maris let out a short laugh. “It’s not that bad, yet. You’ve still got at least another good… two or three years yet.”

“Bite me, pup,” Maurice muttered, rolling his eyes.

* * *

Sahiri ran as fast as she could through the abandoned lower levels of the fort; all the students were apparently still upstairs trying to secure the damage to the ramparts, which she was beginning to suspect had been planned from the very beginning.

The former Royal Guard didn’t even bother questioning who might be attacking them; the list of enemies Robin had made in the last ten years was as long as the man’s arm, so dwelling on it without any evidence to point her in the right direction was pointless. Robin had been prepared for this eventuality since the beginning; he and Lucina had trained Sahiri and the guards to defend the fort in their absence.

She could hear the students running around on the floor above her, but there was no panicked screams drifting down from above; that was a good thing, though, as it meant no one was panicking. It meant that Robin’s students were still in control of the situation.

Sahiri skidded to a stop as she rounded a corner, almost colliding with the two men running the opposite direction. She hesitated for a moment, her Plegian training telling her for a split second that black meant friendly causing her to lose the edge of surprise, giving the two strangers ample time to leap back, opening up distance between them.

“Who are you!?” Sahiri roared, levelling her lance at the younger of the two men.

The younger of the two clicked his tongue in annoyance, shrugging off a strange leather pack and handing it to his partner.

“Double back, go around,” the purple-haired man said. “I’ll keep her busy.”

The older man nodded, turning on his heel and racing back up the hallway, leaving Sahiri alone with the masked man.

“Not just going to try and go through one lone woman?” Sahiri asked, venom in her voice as she began inching forward.

The man scoffed, stretching his arms a little before drawing his sword.

“I know who you are, Plegian,” the man said through his mask. “I know what you’re capable of. The Grandmaster wouldn’t have chosen you to be his head of household were you incapable. I don’t have the time to treat with you properly, though, so we will need to make this duel quick.”

“You talk a lot, Ylissean,” Sahiri growled before throwing herself forward.

She led with her buckler, spear pulled back and her arm like a coiled spring, forcing the man onto his back foot to avoid the blow from her shield. He brought his sword up, the blade bouncing off the thick wood of Sahiri’s shield as she knocked it aside and lunged with her shield. The man backpedalled again, releasing one hand off his sword as he ducked below Sahiri’s blow, bringing his fist up and grazing her stomach as she leapt back, too. With a hiss Sahiri reached down, feeling air on her stomach coupled with a slight stinging pain. The man was clearly grinning as he twirled a small dagger in his off hand.

“I was right to send Maurice ahead,” the man laughed, circling his sword a little as he returned his dagger to its sheathe. “This is going to take some time. Heh. I regret not poisoning my blades, now.”

Sahiri frowned, and the two stared off against each other in the tight hallway. Sahiri had the benefit of reach with her spear, but because of the close walls she was reduced to lunges and thrusts. However, to her practiced eye it appeared that the man was a little wrong-footed; he was most likely a cavalryman or something similar, possibly even a knight given his bearing and speech.

With a grunt of exertion the man threw himself forward this time, leading low with his sword and forcing Sahiri to block with the haft of her lance. Before she could bring her buckler around to bash at the man’s head his brow smashed into her cheek, forcing her back a few steps as stars blossomed before her vision for the second time that day. Sahiri swung her lance wildly, the tip bouncing off the walls as she tried to regain her composure.

“Saw the Exalt use that one on the field a few times and always wanted to try it,” the man said with a smirk beneath his mask. “Never could while I was mounted, though.”

Sahiri shook her head clear, frowning even deeper.

“Why don’t you let me show you something my Lord has taught me, then?” she spat, dropping the buckler and gesturing outwards with her hand.

The man quirked a brow as a few seconds passed and nothing happened, before stepping back and letting out a yelp as sparks began to fly at his face from Sahiri’s outstretched hand. She was far from being a mage, but had picked up a few dirty tricks from her time in Robin’s employ.

Leading with both hands on her spear this time as the stranger coughed and beat at the sparks in his hair and mask Sahiri lunged again, carving a furrow on the man’s bicep and forcing him backwards as he tugged the mask off his handsome face, the grin he’d been wearing before replaced with a nasty grimace.

“You sand-rat-bitch,” he snarled, kicking upwards at Sahiri’s lance.

The lance bounced up, and the man slid in under her guard for her stomach again. The one-time Royal Guard brought her knee up, hitting the man’s shoulder and bouncing him away from her. His dagger flashed again, and Sahiri cried out this time as he sliced her thigh open. They eyed each other again, positions reversed in the hall.

But before either could move to finish the brawl that their fight was quickly descending into the ground shook again, and the sound of crumbling stone echoed around the hall. Running footsteps echoed behind the man now, too; judging from the direction and pace it sounded like some of the Guards had come to help her.

“And we’re out of time,” the man said with a shrug, lowering his sword.

“Like hell we are,” Sahiri spat, favouring her wounded leg as she levelled her lance again.

“You don’t seem to get it, woman,” the man said with a cruel smirk. “Unless you want a hundred tonnes of stone dropped on your and your students’ heads, I’d be getting out of this fort in the next few minutes.”

Sahiri’s lance wavered for just a moment, and the stranger used that opening to slip under her guard and dash past her with a cocky laugh.

“No you don’t!” Sahiri roared, spinning and tossing her lance with all her might.

The man let out a yelp, falling to one knee before landing face-first on the stone floor, Sahiri’s lance protruding from the back of his own thigh. He glanced over his shoulder in shock as Sahiri collapsed herself, panting and grinning at the immobilized man. The guards clattered into the hall now, Ait’o leading one of the others as they dashed towards the prone man. The man tried to bring his sword up, but Ait’o’s lance was faster and pinned the weapon as the second guard brought the haft of his axe down on the back of the man’s head, knocking him out cold.

“Bind him and bring him outside,” Sahiri groaned, forcing herself back to her feet. “Get all the students out into the forest clearing now.”

“Ma’am?” Ait’o asked, confused.

“Do it now!” Sahiri barked, hobbling at a good pace back towards the stairs.

She was bleeding badly, but it could wait until she knew that Emm and the other students were safe.

* * *

Van spun again, his dual blades flashing like silver lighting as he struck at the three men around him. With a show of acrobatics he skipped and jumped around them, making up for his lack of strength and experience with speed and agility. All three of the men bore small wounds, a testament to Van’s skills, but he was slowing now.

The bandit with the eyepatch kicked out, not hitting Van but catching his sword-staff and arresting the student’s spin, forcing him to step backwards and give the two other men time to rally around the eyepatch man.

“You fought good, kid,” eyepatch admitted. “But you’re not a killer yet. You’re just lucky we’re out of time here.”

“Like I’m going to let you get away now,” Van panted, circling his esoteric weapon back to his ready stance.

“Look at you kid,” the oldest of the three strangers said, his voice actually somewhat kind. “You can hardly hold that thing. There’s no shame in admitting defeat against overwhelming odds.”

“Shut up!” Van roared, darting forward again and lunging for the man on the left.

His sword-staff swung in a figure-eight, forcing the other two men away from his target. The man in question, who had the most amount of small wounds from Van’s attacks, brought his weapon up and caught one of Van’s blades with his own, forcing Van to spin back and strike low with his other blade.

“Let it go, kid,” eyepatch said again, from further away. “We were supposed to attack the entry hall, but you stopped us. Three trained and experienced soldiers, held off by one student tactician. That’s worth some serious bragging points. Don’t waste the opportunity by making us kill you.”

Van risked a glance over his shoulder, seeing that the eyepatch and older man were already running back towards the forest. In the split second he took his eyes off his opponent, the third man had dashed backwards, before turning and running for the forest, too.

* * *

Maurice grimaced, the old man rubbing his tired shoulders as he peered through the foliage at the hole in the fort’s wall they had used as an entrance.

“C’mon, pup, don’t keep us waiting,” he muttered under his breath, urging Maris to hurry the hell up.

All of the others were already present and accounted for, waiting patiently for their Captain. Rustling from behind the group announced the return of Adrik and the other two that had been supposed to support the bandits from Silva, meaning it was time to leave.

“Alright, get back to the horses and make for the border,” Maurice announced, standing and reaching into his pocket.

“What about the Captain?” one of the other men asked.

“Stick to the plan,” Maurice growled. “We make for the border. If he doesn’t catch up we’ll see him again at the Villa.”

“And if he’s been caught?” Adrik asked pessimistically.

The older man turned to regard Adrik, surprised to find him and the other two covered in small wounds.

Maurice shrugged. “He’s the eldest son of one of the richest merchant houses in the world. I’m sure he can buy his way out of trouble. Now move your asses. It’s hard enough to concentrate with all your yammering.”

The men nodded, reluctantly pulling back towards where they had stashed the horses in the forest. Maurice hesitated, pulling a small glass gem out of his pocket and holding it up to the dying evening light. He wasn’t a mage by any means, but even an idiot could memorize a few lines of a spell; enough that, with a focusing iris, he could ignite the fuses on thirty bombs from a hundred meters away.

* * *

Sahiri grimaced, holding her thigh wound as she limped through Robin and Lucina’s apartment.

“Emm!” she shouted desperately. “Miss Emmeryn, please! We need to get out of the fort”

The little girl appeared from Robin’s study, clutching a toy sword and looking up with wide eyes at Sahiri from under the ridge of her over-sized skull-cap.

“Sahiri, you’re hurt!” Emm cried out in alarm.

The little girl dropped her toy and rushed forward, wrapping her arms around Sahiri’s waist and looking up at her with big, moist eyes. The older woman didn’t hesitate, stooping to pick the child up and cradle her close to her chest, turning and limping back towards the stairs.

“It’s only a couple of scratches, miss,” Sahiri assured the girl. “I was more worried about you.”

In truth she was beginning to feel faint from the blood-loss, and every step caused agony to shoot up her leg, but Sahiri would see a healer as soon as Emmeryn was safe.

“I hid in Father’s study, just like you told me to,” Emm sniffled, wrapping her arms around Sahiri’s neck and burying her face into the woman’s shoulder. “What’s happening? You’re hurt and everyone’s been running around…”

“I’ll explain once we’re safe,” Sahiri promised.

After only another few steps the former Royal Guard was knocked off her feet again, Emm letting out a shrill scream as they both tumbled backwards to the floor. The light fixtures swung wildly above them, two of the cheap iron chandeliers actually falling to the floor near Sahiri.

“What’s happening!?” Emm shrieked, holding onto Sahiri so tight she began to choke.

“Hold on!” the woman shouted, forcing herself to her feet.

Bursting into a limping run Sahiri dashed towards the closest window, the ceiling and floor both beginning to collapse behind her. Offering Naga a quick prayer Sahiri turned, throwing herself shoulder first through the window and into the air as the fort collapsed behind her.

There was a brief moment of weightlessness, and Sahiri was absently aware that Emm was thrashing around in her arms in a panic, but she tuned all this out as she turned to shield the child and braced herself for the impact that was coming. Robin and Lucina’s apartment was on the second floor, which meant that it was quite a fall.

They hit the ground outside the fort rolling, Sahiri doing her best to ensure that Emm was protected from the brunt of the impact. There was a sickening pop as they hit, and Sahiri screamed as her left arm went numb and Emm rolled out of her grasp before coming to a stop a few feet away from each other.

With a grunt Sahiri looked up from the grass, reaching out with her right hand and dragging herself towards the little girl lying motionless on the ground just out of her reach.

* * *

Robin let out a sigh as he trudged down the forest road, his hand held up before him with a small fire spell dancing above his palm, lighting the little group’s path. Flavia had stayed in Silva with the rest of the Feroxi soldiers, and Robin had bid Gaius and Panne to stay with her and help her keep an eye on things; Anna had taken her mercenaries, and Owain and Severa for some strange reason, and gone straight back to her store in Nauta, promising to send Robin the bill; leaving the tactician, his wife and sister to lead the four students back to the school on their own. As well as the juvenile gryphon, nestled happily in Mari’ko’s arms as they walked.

“What’s up, teach?” Rance asked curiously, glancing over at Robin.

“Don’t call me that. And I’m getting too old to camp,” the tactician sighed. “I miss my bed.”

Lucina cleared her throat from next to him, pointedly crossing her arms and shooting him a little glare.

“And my daughter, I miss my daughter,” Robin added quickly.

Isaac made a little whip-crack sound, and he and Rance burst into laughter. Even Galle had a small chuckle at their teacher’s expense, making Robin groan and run his hand through his hair. The hand that wasn’t on fire; he’d only had to make that mistake once.

“One day you’ll get married too,” Robin deadpanned, looking pointedly at Rance. “And if you think I’m whipped, you’ve never met a Feroxi girl.”

“He’s got you there!” Isaac laughed, patting a downcast Rance on the shoulder.

“Hey Galle, what’re the women like where you’re from?” Rance asked desperately.

The Plegian boy shrugged listlessly.

“Don’t know,” he admitted. “Never really thought about it.”

“Come on, man!” Rance begged, eliciting more laughter from Isaac.

“There’s an example right there,” Galle added, smirking a little as he pointed to Aversa.

Rance followed the direction of the Plegian boy’s finger, his face paling as he locked eyes with a frowning Aversa.

“I think I’ll take the Feroxi woman,” Rance muttered defeatedly, earning another round of laughter from Isaac and Galle.

Robin let out an involuntary snicker, earning an icy glare from his sister. His chuckle turned awkward as he tried to subtly shift so that Lucina was walking between them.

It would be good to get home in one piece, Robin told himself. Little field trips like this were nice, but he had left in a hurry, and he was worried about how Sahiri was coping with both classes on her own after nearly three weeks.

As they drew closer to the edge of the forest the fort was in Isaac and Rance raced ahead, Galle being dragged along in the slip-stream like always as Mari’ko stuck close to her teachers.

“Last one there gets dishes-duty for a week!” Isaac announced, breaking into a run.

“You’re on!” Rance laughed, following after the Ylissean boy.

Galle sighed, his shoulders drooping before he started running, too.

“I just know they would actually make me do the dishes…” the Plegian boy muttered, sprinting after his classmates.

Robin grinned and shook his head, watching the three boys start to shove at each other as they all vied to be the first one to the fort.

“Ah, to be young again,” Robin said wistfully.

Lucina lightly wrapped herself around Robin’s arm as they walked, neither breaking stride. The tactician quirked his brow at his usually reserved wife’s behaviour, but she smiled up at him, silencing his questions before he could voice them as they simply enjoyed each other’s presence. The four remaining travellers proceeded in silence for a time until they heard a commotion ahead.

“Teach! Teach!” Rance shouted desperately.

“Sir Robin!” Galle echoed. “You… I… what…”

Robin traded looks with Lucina and Aversa before all three of them burst into a sprint, the silent Mari’ko following like always. The gryphon in her arms squawked at being jostled and rudely awoken, nipping slightly at Mari’ko’s arm but continuing to let her carry it. Robin felt his blood run cold as he stepped into the clearing outside of the fort, looking at where his home used to be.

“No…” Mari’ko whispered behind him, falling to her knees.

Aversa cursed, slowing before coming to a stop near the students. Isaac and Galle just looked lost, alternating between looking at their teachers and at the pile of rubble. Rance was already picking through the stones, looking for what Robin wasn’t sure.

The tactician himself was silent as he looked at the destruction; a pile of rubble sat where the old fort had once been, bits and pieces of timber rising up out of the mound of broken stone like jagged bones from a carcass. He didn’t know what to feel in that moment, so he stood, numb, waiting for something to jolt him out of-

“Emm? Emmeryn!?” Lucina cried, frantically racing towards the ruins.

With a mounting feeling of dread Robin chased after Lucina, already a fair way ahead of him. As Robin caught up they reached the edge of the ruins, which Rance had already clambered on top of. Lucina fell to her knees at the edge of the ruin, tears beginning to stream down her face as she looked up at Robin. He looked down at her, the frustrating helplessness he felt almost driving him to the edge of his sanity.

“Who’s there!?” someone called out from the forest.

Everyone spun to look at the source of the voice as a familiar form holding a lit torch stepped out of the trees.

“Ait’o!” Robin said, crossing the space in a few strides to stand in front of the guard. “Start talking. Now. What-”

“Where is my daughter!?” Lucina asked desperately, her voice carrying an edge of steel as she appeared at Robin’s side.

Ait’o blinked a few times, taken aback by the intensity of the gazes settled on him before he cleared his throat.

“It’s… kind of a long story…” he said after a tense moment of silence.

* * *

“Emmeryn!?”

“Mommy!”

Robin let out a sigh of relief, feeling a massive weight lift off his shoulders as Lucina swept their daughter up in a tight hug. Sahiri limped up behind the girl, being supported by a forlorn-looking Van, the rest of the school’s students looking on from the dormitory-style tables on the other side of the room.

“Milord, I’m so sorry,” Sahiri said, her voice cracking as she hung her head. “I was powerless to stop them. I’m… sorry.”

“Forget it,” Robin said as kindly as he could, clapping a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “There were no casualties, and that’s what’s important. We can replace a building. I can’t replace any of you.”

Sahiri nodded and sniffled, looking down as Robin gave her shoulder a squeeze. They were in one of the communal dining rooms in the Nauta inn, all of Robin’s students as well as two of the other four guards he maintained. Ait’o made a beeline for them, probably happy to be away from his enraged employers. The students looked scared but unharmed, and the only person that seemed to have taken any sort of serious wounds was Sahiri. The four members of the first class trooped into the room behind Aversa, the Plegian mage letting out a small breath of relief as she spotted Emm before moving to watch over the other students.

“They came out of the forest,” Van said, leading the group towards the closest table. “Bandits and… other soldiers. Professionals, from Ylisse. They… well, you saw the ruins.”

Robin nodded mutely, glancing over at Lucina where she was still clinging to Emm. Mari’ko lowered the gryphon to the floor, and much to Emm’s delight it padded right up to her and Lucina and gave the girl a curious sniff.

“We managed to take their leader prisoner,” Sahiri went on, snapping Robin’s attention back to the matter at hand. “He’s being held at the City Hall.”

The tactician’s gaze hardened as he rose to his feet again.

“Take me to him.”

* * *

The cell door clattered open, prompting the lone guard to look up as Robin stepped in, Sahiri and Mari’ko behind him. Dez, one of Robin’s fort guards, stood at attention as he passed her, making for the man currently stripped to the waist and shackled to the floor with thick iron chains.

“Say what you will about the Feroxi,” the man said without looking up. “But they really know how to maintain a prison. You make one half-hearted escape attempt to test the waters and wind up clapped in irons after a good beating.”

The man looked up, his handsome face swollen and bruised on one side and his light purple hair darkened and plastered to the side of his head with dried blood.

“Grandmaster,” he said, bowing his head respectfully.

“Former Grandmaster,” Robin corrected the man neutrally. “And I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“Forgive me, sir,” the man shrugged, the chains rattling with the movement. “Maris of House Rommel, formerly of the Themisian light mounted division. I served under you at Steiger, sir.”

Robin nodded slowly, stepping into the cell.

“Leave,” he said simply, the three women wordlessly obeying and withdrawing from the cell.

As the door closed Robin and the prisoner were descended into a moon-lit gloom, the only light coming in from the half-moon outside the small barred window.

“You knew who I was before you attacked the fort,” Robin said as a statement rather than a question.

“Yes, sir,” Maris answered truthfully.

“Why did you do it?”

Maris shrugged as well as he could under the weight of the heavy chains.

“I got bored,” the man said lazily.

Robin let out a sigh. “I’m not going to get a straight answer from you, am I?”

“It’s the head-wound,” Maris explained as if he were describing a piece of fruit, turning his head to display the small gash in his scalp to Robin. “Makes everything fuzzy. One would think that the locals had never interrogated a prisoner before.”

“Not a lot of cause to anymore,” Robin said. “Most bandits will reform pretty quickly if you give them the opportunity. Thieves, too. But men like you…”

“I already have an honest job, thank you sir,” Maris interrupted him. “Like I said. I got bored. There are a lot of ex-soldiers turning to banditry lately. Or so I hear.”

“You know, you’re pretty calm for a man in a cell,” Robin pointed out, crossing his arms and sinking to a hip.

“And you’re pretty calm for a man that just had his school knocked down,” Maris quipped with a grin.

Robin’s brow twitched as his face turned instantly into a scowl, and he gestured with one finger at the man. An arc of purple dark lightning shot out from his index finger, and Maris howled and convulsed as the charge passed through him. Robin put a quick pulse through the spell, altering it slightly to include something else. After a few seconds the spell stopped, leaving Maris gasping and doubled over face-down on the stone floor.

“I’m actually very angry,” Robin said lightly. “And I’m hardly as magnanimous as the masses like to make me out to be.”

Maris lout out a small groan that turned into a chuckle.

“I deserved that one,” Maris half-groaned, half-chuckled.

“I can keep this up all night,” Robin warned darkly, holding up his hand as lightning magic arced back and forth between his fingers. “Why did you attack my school? Who gave the order to do so?”

“Sir, I attacked the school on my own behest,” Maris said, looking down at the floor.

“You’re lying,” Robin said, kneeling down in front of the man. “What would you have to gain by attacking my school?”

Maris looked up at Robin from under his brow, glaring at the former tactician for the first time. Robin had to admit that it was an impressive glare, the kind that only a veteran soldier could deliver, but he had spent the last two years living with Lucina and Aversa, and both of them held the potential for glares that would make this man’s seem like a sunny smile in comparison.

“I’m done answering questions, sir,” Maris ground out. “I attacked the fort on my own behest in the name of revenge.”

“That a fact?” Robin nodded. “What did I do to piss you and your friends off so much?”

“It’s not what you did,” Maris explained. “It’s what you are. Prince Robin of Plegia, sir.”

Robin flinched, resisting the urge to shock the man again. No one called him that. He had been a prince for all of two weeks before dissolving the Plegian monarchy and instituting a democratic system instead.

“You were at Mount Origin, too,” Robin breathed.

“First wave off the boats with Grandmaster Morgan,” Maris said, puffing his chest out proudly.

“So it was good old fashioned racism that prompted the attack?” Robin asked.

Maris looked up at him with a fierce gaze, his next words coming out as a guttural snarl.

“Go back to your desert, sand-rat,” the soldier spat, before going back to looking at the ground.

Robin nodded silently, rising to his feet and knocking on the door twice to be let out. Without so much as a backwards glance he left the cell and went back to the inn.

* * *

“He was lying to me,” Robin stated simply. “I don’t know why, and I don’t know who he was trying to protect, but… he was lying about the attack being an act of violent racism.”

Emm and the students had all been put to bed, and Robin was holding a strategy meeting, his first in a very long time, in one of the inn’s smaller rooms. Aversa, Lucina and Sahiri sat in chairs both facing Robin, the students from the top class, as well as Van, standing just behind them in a respectful silence. On a whim Robin had decided to include them in the briefing; he needed to grade their performance at Silva sooner or later, anyway, so he would simply do it after he relayed what he had found from interviewing Maris.

“’Desert-rats’,” Aversa scoffed. “I should go in there and show the man just what a ‘desert-rat’ can do to a prisoner…”

Robin gave Galle a quick glance behind Aversa, the look on the boy’s face clearly echoing her thoughts.

Sahiri let out a frustrated sigh, shaking her head sadly.

“As much as it pains me to overlook such a slur, I think that Sir Robin is right. This wasn’t about race. They were in the fort and didn’t try to cause any mayhem, didn’t try to attack the students, and even though he knew who I was and where I was from when we duelled this ‘Maris’ simply turned tail and fled. Those aren’t the actions of a man out to satisfy his wanton bloodlust.”

“I agree,” Lucina added. “It feels like there was another point to this. Almost like it was a warning.”

“Or reprisal for Silva,” Rance muttered from behind them.

“There were bandits at the main gate,” Van added helpfully.

Robin nodded a few times, trying to let this all sink in.

“So what do we do about this?” Aversa asked. “I say we-”

“I know what you’re going to say, and I’m not executing anyone,” Robin sighed, cutting his sister off. “Nobody died during the attack, so I’m not taking a life. We’ll mete out the standard punishment for acts of banditry. Besides, if he comes back for more, I’ll know.”

“House Rommel is a rather prestigious merchant house in Themis,” Lucina pointed out. “This could seriously damage their reputation.”

“And bring further acts of reprisal,” Sahiri added darkly.

“You let me and my boys worry about that,” a new voice said as cool air from the open door flooded into the room.

Anna winked at the tacticians with her trademark grin, both seeming strained after what had happened that day. Owain and Severa came in after her, both looking half-exhausted with worry but giving relieved smiles when they saw everyone was unharmed.

“I’ll leave my mercenaries here as a guard for the students,” the merchant continued, crossing the small room and standing before the group.

“And just where are we going that you would be leaving them here?” Aversa drolled, leaning to one side and resting her chin on a palm as she spoke.

“Well I’m going down to Themis to talk to my Aunt,” Anna shrugged. “It may not have been my home, but you’ve been my best customers for the last three years, and the Anna household take debts like that seriously. And whatever this is, I don’t think it’s going to stop just because a drafty old fort fell down.”

“My fort was not drafty…” Robin mumbled dejectedly, frowning a little.

There was a moment of silence where everyone looked expectantly at Robin, and the tactician sighed.

“We can’t let them get away with this,” he agreed. “But we can’t leave the school undefended, either. We’ll leave the guards and the mercenaries here, but…”

“But…” Aversa prompted when he fell silent.

“But I don’t want to close the school just yet,” Robin finished. “I want to show these people, whoever they are, that they can’t beat us so easy. So I’m going to ask you to stay here, Aversa.”

“Very well,” the mage shrugged, leaning back in her chair. “I did not much relish the thought of camping again, anyway.”

“Well, that was easy,” Robin chuckled.

“Sahiri, keep classes going and work with Aversa to rebuild the school,” Robin went on. “I will travel with Anna in secret under the guise of going to Ylisstol for aid. Owain and Severa, I want you to join us. I don’t want to involve the Shepherds in this any more than I have to.”

“Of course, master,” Owain said instantly, his voice rising with every syllable. “It will be just like the old days! You and me, fighting off darkness with naught but our wits and blades, and-”

“Yes, we’ll come,” Severa chimed in, silencing her travelling companion with a swift elbow in the ribs. “Not that we want to, but you’ll probably get killed without us there to save you.”

“Just like the old days indeed,” Lucina chuckled softly, before growing sombre.

“I… do not like the idea of leaving Emm here alone,” she added.

“You know you could stay,” Robin suggested. “I would feel better if you did.”

Lucina shook her head vehemently, looking at her husband with fire in her eyes.

“This was the first home I have had since I was a child,” she said hotly. “And I swear I will see the people responsible for destroying it pay.”

“Er… what about us?” Isaac asked somewhat timidly.

Robin glanced up, reminded that his students were still present.

“Oh, right,” he muttered, slapping a hand to his forehead. “I can’t believe I forgot about you guys.”

“Gee, thanks,” Galle deadpanned as the other male students chuckled.

Robin stood, clearing his throat as he moved to stand in front of the students.

“Isaac of Ylisstol, Galle of Plegia, Mari’ko of Chon’sin, Rance of Regna Ferox and Van of the Ylissean Knights,” he started seriously. “In light of recent events, and in the face of your performances both at Silva and the defence of the fort, I am hereby promoting you all to the rank of full tactician. Congratulations, kids. You all graduate.”

Silence and blank stares met Robin’s announcement, all of the students too stunned to speak.

“That’s… it?” Galle asked, breaking the silence. “We don’t… even get coats?”

* * *

The next morning the sun was just beginning to crest the tops of the houses in Nauta as Robin stood before the nine prisoners on the small stage set up in the town’s square. Eight bandits had been captured from the assault, as well as Maris standing tall and regal, despite still being shackled. More than half the town had turned out to watch the punishment, all aware of what had happened to Robin’s school and who was responsible.

Looking out over the angry, jeering crowd Robin had to resist the urge to cringe. He didn’t want to be in his current position, but the town’s mayor had insisted.

“In the old days,” Robin started, his voice clear and carrying over the shouts of the crowd. “I would stand up here as an executioner with nine men sentenced to death. They would either have an executioner’s axe behind their necks, or a noose dangling above their heads.”

The crowd let out an approving cheer at this, the simple stage practically vibrating beneath Robin’s feet. He held up his hands placatingly, waiting for quiet before continuing.

“However after the wars of the last decade, nine strong, fit men are somewhat hard to come by. Therefore the Khans agree with me when I say that unless the crime is utterly reprehensible, the death penalty is far too extreme given our nation’s circumstances. None died in their attack, so I will, in turn, show leniency.”

The crowd almost exploded at this declaration, causing Robin to wait a few moments before lifting his hands and calling for silence again. As he waited Sahiri stepped forward, holding a red-hot iron brand with the crossed-circle symbol that reformed bandits wore.

“This is the symbol of banditry,” Robin declared, holding the brand high. “It represents the way that these men have crossed their own kin for their own selfish desires. When a man is caught a second time, already bearing this mark, that is when he is put to death. This is your last chance gentlemen. Don’t waste it.”

Robin switched off then, going about his grim task in silence. Each man received the brand on his bicep, and soon the stench of burning meat was heavy in the air of the town square. The crowd roared with approval every time one of the bandits screamed, jeering and shouting cat-calls at them as they were dragged from the stage by the town’s militia. Robin had forbid his students from attending the meet; they didn’t need to see this. However, being that they were officially no longer his students, the five newly promoted tacticians stood at the back of the crowd with Lucina, watching impassively.

Finally, Maris was dragged forward and forced onto his knees. The brand had cooled somewhat now, and Sahiri had been forced to return it to the brazier to re-heat.

“This man was the bandit’s leader!” Robin announced, waiting for Sahiri to finish with the brand. “He is the one responsible for the destruction of my home, and the terror that befell Silva, by his own admission.”

The crowd was deafening as Robin held out his hand for the glowing hot brand, Maris staring up at him with a smirk on his face.

“I think that the harsher crime needs a more suitable punishment,” Robin declared, looking at the two militiamen waiting at the side of the stage. “Hold him down.”

Maris blinked curiously for a moment before the two local soldiers grabbed him and wrestled him to the floor of the stage, forcing his face into the boards and pulling his hair back.

“You wear this mark on your face, so all may know how you sullied your family’s honour,” Robin announced, holding the iron brand for Maris to clearly see.

“No!” the ex-soldier roared, twisting and fighting against the men that held him. “You can’t do this!”

Robin was silent as he pressed the brand to Maris’ face, the circular iron sizzling as his skin was burned away. The soldier let out a blood-curdling scream equal parts pain and outrage before passing out as Robin removed the brand.

“Take him back to his cell,” Robin instructed the militiamen. “See that he’s well enough to travel before he’s released.”

Robin stood again, the applause of the crowd deafening as he handed the brand back to Sahiri and stepped down from the stage. He made for where the students were standing with Lucina, their faces ranging from looks of satisfaction to ones of distaste at the show. It was the last lesson that Robin had wanted to teach them; a tactician couldn’t always hide behind others. Sometimes they had to dirty their hands themselves.

* * *

Owain let out a sigh as he ran a hand through his messy blonde hair, replaying the events of the morning’s town gathering in his head. True, his master was a man on par with the world’s greatest leaders; Robin regularly associated with Kings and Queens and Exalts and Khans, but the cold displeasure in his master’s eyes as he carried out his duty had struck Owain deeply.

“Why…?” he muttered to himself, looking at the inn’s wooden floor. “Why was he the one that had to…?”

Owain glanced up as the door opened and Severa stepped in, followed closely by Lucina who was leading little Emm by the hand. All three girls were smiling and laughing, but on his cousin the look was strained. He could tell from the tightness around her eyes and the subtle twitch of her sword hand as it went subconsciously to feel the comforting handle of Falchion, its usual position on her belt empty as the blade sat against the wall across the room.

“Here you are, cousin,” Lucina said, her smile becoming genuine as she spotted him.

“Owain!” Emm practically shouted with joy, darting across the room to throw herself onto his lap.

“What-ho, little hero?” he asked in his best hero’s voice as the little girl settled into her favourite spot.

Severa rolled her eyes as the two older girls perched on separate beds, obviously fresh from trying to tire Emm out in the markets. Because Anna’s magnanimity only went so far, and technically because they were all family, they were all being forced to share a room in the inn. Robin and Owain had portable cots on one side of the small space, while Severa, Lucina and Emm all shared the large bed on the other side of the room. It was hardly comfortable, but it beat out sharing a room with ten students like Sahiri and Aversa had to.

“What-ho to you, bigger hero!” Emm chirped happily. “Mother and Miss Severa brought me around the markets earlier! I saw the prettiest necklace, and it was shaped like a sword, and I thought it would look nice on you, but Anna wasn’t there to help me haggle so I couldn’t get a good price for it. But! But the shop keeper told me to come back again after he’d thought about my offer, so-”

Owain laughed, cutting the excited child’s rant off by plonking her skull-cap on top of her head, the front ridge of the helmet covering her eyes.

“I get ‘Miss Severa’ and that cheapskate gets just ‘Anna’?” Severa grumbled unhappily across the room, earning a giggle from Lucina.

“Maybe if you two spent more time around here,” Lucina suggested, smiling easily as Emm adjusted the helmet to sit properly, even if it was still ridiculously oversized.

Emmeryn looked like she was about to respond before letting out a mighty yawn, throwing her head back and opening her mouth wide. Owain grinned a little, taking the girl under the arms and sitting her on the bed next to him before taking the skull-cap off her head.

“It’s getting quite late, little hero,” Owain said as kindly as he could. “Perhaps you had best turn in for the night.”

Emmeryn nodded, rubbing her tired eyes a little.

“M’kay,” she assented blearily, leaning down to use Owain’s thigh like a pillow. “But promise you’ll all still be here in the mornin’.”

“We promise,” Lucina said standing and crossing the room to give the little girl a kiss on the forehead before covering her with the corner of the inn’s rough blanket. “Now sleep. If you’re still awake when your father comes back he’ll scold us again.”

“M’kay,” Emm repeated, her eyes fluttering closed as Lucina withdrew.

After a few brief moments of silence the little girl’s breathing grew slow and rhythmic, signifying she had fallen asleep. Owain gently stroked her hair as she slept, smiling lightly as he took the chance and pampered the future hero a little.

“When did you get so good with kids?” Severa huffed, crossing her arms and frowning.

“Heh, don’t worry, my fated companion; I’ll be sure to stroke your head before you take rest, too,” Owain promised with a wink.

Severa groaned, her face turning the colour of her hair as Lucina tried and failed to stifle her giggles, which just made Owain’s grin widen more. It was nice, living in these moments of peace and tranquillity; it was everything that the three of them had fought for so long to achieve. Sometimes it bothered Owain that they could never return to their own timeline, but living with the knowledge that they had prevented such a calamity form occurring again made living in this timeline bearable.

“There you go, brooding again,” Severa sighed, undoing the straps that held her hair up in her signature twin-tails. “I swear, you’ve spent far too much time around Robin.”

“Robin does not brood,” Lucina said defensively, grabbing two hairbrushes and handing one to Severa before hesitating and adding “Anymore.”

Severa snorted, beginning to run the brush through her hip-length crimson hair as Lucina did the same to her shorter cobalt hair, a sight that Owain found strangely relaxing.

“So?” Lucina asked, breaking the silence. “What were you thinking so hard about?”

Owain shrugged slightly, prompting Emm to shift a little on his lap.

“A way to sneak Emm into my pack so you wouldn’t notice?” he said with forced cheer.

“Get your own daughter,” Lucina scoffed in a very Robin-like manner.

“No,” Severa said flatly as Owain looked at her.

The blonde boy pouted, earning more giggles from the two women.

“Seriously,” Lucina said after she stopped laughing, looking at her cousin as she brushed her hair. “What has you so distracted?”

Owain sighed, glancing down to ensure that Emm was really asleep.

“It’s what happened this morning,” He admitted.

“You were there, then,” Lucina said, her hand pausing mid-brush.

“Anna tried to keep us away, but we managed to shake her,” Severa explained.

“Why did he… have to be the one to pass judgement?” Owain asked, looking up at the two women. “I mean, I know that those men needed to be punished but… why Robin?”

Severa nodded her agreement with Owain’s questions. Lucina sighed and placed her brush down, looking thoughtfully down at the floor before glancing back up at the other two.

“For what it’s worth, Robin detested the idea of being up on that stage this morning,” she explained. “He fought bitterly with Aversa and the mayor, but in the end… well…”

Silence reigned again as she collected her thoughts, the only sound in the room the fluttering of the candle and the steady sound of Severa’s brushing.

“In the end he thought to use it as one final lesson for the graduating students,” Lucina went on after a moment. “A few of them had it in their minds that a tactician sits at a desk, writing plans and never using the skills we are imparting them with. He wanted to show them that even a tactician must dirty his hands to protect those dear to him.”

Owain nodded his understanding as Severa sighed and continued to brush her hair.

“Well he couldn’t have picked a better way to get the point across,” she said. “I don’t think that’s a lesson that the kids are going to forget anytime soon.”

They all sat in silence for a few more moments, lost in their own thoughts, before Owain’s brow creased and he looked up again, a pressing question on his mind.

“So… how am I supposed to get up without waking her?” he asked, indicating to the child curled up on his lap. “Because my leg is starting to fall asleep here.”

* * *

Robin let out a sigh as he planted his torch in the ground, looking out over the rubble of his school. What had once been his school, he mentally corrected himself as he began to slowly pick through the rubble, looking for something. At least in the moonlight the damage didn’t look so bad…

“Sensei?” a soft voice called out.

Robin cursed, whirling around to face his most irritatingly observant student.

“Mari’ko,” Robin said, pointedly using her full name. “It’s late. You should be resting.”

The girl picked her way through the rubble to stand in front of her teacher, looking up at him questioningly.

“We saw you leave,” Galle said from behind him, kicking at some of the fallen stones.

“Kinda late for a walk, don’t you think, sir?” Van asked, limping slightly as he appeared at the edge of the rubble.

Robin sighed, leaning back against a particularly large piece of fallen wall and running a hand through his hair.

“Where’re the others?” he asked defeatedly.

“Keeping an eye on the younger students with Sahiri and Aversa,” Galle deadpanned.

“You kids are too smart for your own good,” Robin muttered. “I’ve created a monster… No, I’ve created five monsters, haven’t I? ”

Van smirked, limping over and clapping the older man on the shoulder. “Yup. Now what’s so important that you’d come out in the middle of the night to find it?”

Robin smiled a little as he stood up straight, looking at the three students in front of him.

“A small wooden case,” he said, holding his hands about a foot apart. “It would have been in my apartment when the fort collapsed.”

“And it’s important?” Van repeated.

“Nah,” Robin admitted. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

The responses from his former students were varied, and all brought a smile to Robin’s face. Mari’ko was just as impassive as always, while Galle sighed and Van chuckled a little to himself.

“Well, what the heck, let’s find it now that we’re here,” Van said, limping forward a few more steps before stumbling on some rubble in the dark.

Galle rolled his eyes, holding up his hand and casting a small fire spell for illumination.

“Here,” the Plegian boy sighed. “Before you fall and break something else.”

Robin turned back to find Mari’ko already gone, picking through the rubble with the speed and grace the he had come to associate with the girl. He grinned a little to himself as he moved to check another part of the ruins, utterly unsure as to where his apartment would have fallen in the mess.

After about half an hour of searching Galle and Van called out, the Plegian boy waving his flaming hand above his head to get Mari’ko and Robin’s attention.

“I think we found where your apartment used to be,” Van said excitedly.

“Very good,” Robin nodded gratefully. “Start digging. Let’s hope it wasn’t too crushed.”

With renewed vigour the quartet began sifting through the rubble again, digging in the ruins of what had once been Robin’s life. It was a strange feeling for the tactician to be digging though his destroyed apartment, but he felt a sense of detachment as he moved rocks and rubble aside. Perhaps it had yet to hit him that his home was gone, but for the present Robin was focused on his task.

“Sensei!” Mari’ko called out from a few feet away. “I believe I have found it!”

The three men rushed over to where the slight Chon’sinian girl was pulling the case out of the rubble, and Robin sighed when he saw that it hadn’t taken much damage at all. The lacquered wood had a few large scuffs on its surface, but the latches still looked to be in place, much to Robin’s added relief as he took the case from his former student.

“So… what’s in it?” Van said, leaning forward and giving voice to the three students’ thoughts.

“A memory,” Robin said, carefully placing the case down on a flat piece of rubble.

With a sense of reverence Robin popped the latches and opened the case, the red velvet line interior housing a single slit-eyed blue and gold mask, split down the middle nearly ten years ago but long since mended with a combination of Miriel’s experimental science and Robin’s spellcraft. He gently ran his fingers across the ridges of the mask, relishing in the memories that just seeing the old thing brought rushing back.

“A mask?” Van asked curiously.

“A woman’s mask,” Galle pointed out.

Robin closed the case, tucking it under one arm and standing, grinning down at the young tacticians before him.

“Well,” he said with a shrug. “We are going undercover. Besides, it’s not the mask I was worried about.”

With deft movements Robin popped the false bottom out of the box and reached inside, revealing a sheathed dagger with a pommel carved from old bone in the shape of a dragon’s head. A six-eyed dragon, snarling at all life in the world as it came for them.

“Raziel,” Robin explained as he pulled the midnight-black dagger from its sheathe, glimmering menacingly in the weak firelight. “The blade of mysteries and keeper of secrets, forged from one of Grima’s fangs to be Falchion’s antithesis. I couldn’t just leave this here in the dirt, now could I?”

* * *

Idallia groaned as she sunk into her favourite chair at the end of the day, letting the stress melt away forgotten as she finally gave her exhausted bones a break.

“I am far too young to be this tired,” she complained as Hin’rath swept into the room, carrying a tray with her dinner on it.

“It can’t be helped, my lady,” the servant said evenly. “Ever since your brother disappeared…”

He trailed off as Idallia gave him a harsh glare, going about setting up her dinner in silence. With some reluctance she rose from her chair and moved to the small table on the other side of her study, which she had hardly left in the last few weeks. Maris had indeed disappeared, but only after his mission had ended successfully. Rumours had tricked down from the north about a man bearing a certain resemblance to her brother attacking villages and travellers as he passed through Regna Ferox, but Idallia had put them off as a coincidence. Maris was an even-tempered, intelligent man; there was no way that her brother would draw attention to himself like that in a foreign country.

Moving with mechanical, disinterested motions Idallia began to eat the dinner that had been prepared for her, not even tasting it as her worry for her brother once again overrode her conscious thoughts.

“I am sure he is fine, my lady,” Hin’rath said encouragingly. “It is simply a long way to travel from the north, and-”

A bell ringing from inside the villa cut the servant off mid-platitude, his eyes narrowing as his shoulders tensed.

“I must bid you stay here, my lady,” he announced before moving through the door and closing it quietly behind him.

Idallia quirked her head slightly, setting down her utensils as she slowly stood. That bell was commonly used to summon the guard for intruders, but it had only rung twice. Usually the guards on duty would ring it numerous times to ensure that someone had heard it; there was never a shortage of thieves attempting to sneak into a merchant’s home and centre of operations, after all.

Silence stretched out in the hallway, long and foreboding. Idallia reached down, picking up the fine silver knife she had been eating with and hiding it behind her back as she moved to the door.

As she neared the door footsteps echoed down the hall outside, loud and sure, a familiar gait so different to Hin’rath’s. Idallia cursed herself a fool as she threw the knife back onto the table, rushing to open the door and meet her-

“Maris… what in Naga’s name have they done to you?”

The door opened to reveal her brother, sallow-cheeked and sunken eyed as he looked down at her. His hair was dishevelled, and the beginnings of a ratty beard covered his jaw and cheeks. However, the beard couldn’t quite hide the thick, puckered scar tissue burned onto the side of his face. The symbol of the bandit, carved onto his face plain as day for all to see.

“Hello, sister dear,” Maris grunted, pushing past her and straight for the liquor cabinet.

Hin’rath appeared in the hallway, rushing and clearly distressed as he tried to keep pace with Maris. He hesitated when he saw that Idallia was with the man, frowning and taking up position respectfully just outside the door.

Maris took a bottle of wine, worth more than most labourers earned in a year, and tore the cork out with his teeth before taking a deep drag directly from the bottle. Half the bottle was gone before he lowered it, sighing and wiping his face on the back of his hand.

“Maris, what the hell happened?” Idallia asked, reaching up to gently stroke her brother’s scar.

He went still as his sister’s fingertips gently brushed his face before sighing again and taking another long drink from the bottle.

“I completed my mission,” he declared. “I couldn’t burn down a stone fort, though, so I just knocked it down. But they caught me. Implicated me for the occupation in Silva. Then gave me… this.”

He said the last part pointing up to his scarred cheek, his eyes clouding slightly as he frowned.

“Robin won’t worry us again. He’ll be too busy rebuilding for that, but… When we own Regna Ferox,” he added, draining the last of the bottle and setting it down on the cabinet. “When all is done, and you sit on your throne… The Grandmaster’s head is mine.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was hard to believe that a city as beautiful and prosperous as Themis had something as regular as slums. But after the war with Plegia the city had needed to be rebuilt, and rather than build atop the ruins Themis was simply moved slightly to the side and its wall extended. The beautiful white stone buildings of the old city had fallen into disrepair, and shanty homes had quickly sprung up in the ruins where many of the refugees from the war had chosen to eke out a meagre existence. For a time life had been good, even for the refugees; work had been plentiful as the city had been rebuilt, and as long as they were willing to work there was work for the outcast and poor alike. Even now, nearly ten years later, construction still went on within the city, but since the majority of the city was done now the work had stopped being as plentiful, and the refugees had gone back to begging and thievery.

It was a common notion that, in the Themis Old City, one could find just about anything if they knew where to look. Stolen goods, the finest foods, wine fresh from the vineyard; if you knew who to ask and how much to pay, you could still live quite well in Old City.

However there was another thing that could be found in Old City; information.

That information being the sole reason that Arya had travelled east of the border. Although it was probably more accurate to say that she was in search of the truth.

The young girl slouched beneath her cloak, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible as she shuffled through the crowds on Old Main Street, the colonnade long having become a make-shift marketplace. Her eyes scanned the entire crowd in a glance as she moved, head still bowed. She ignored the merchants hocking their wares or the innkeepers offering her a room; it was late now, but that was when she was supposed to meet her ‘contact’.

Ever since she had come to Ylisse this had been her life; skulking around in the shadows as she tried to make enough money to not starve. A few times she had almost given in to thievery, but the thought of having her hands cut off made her hold back.

Turning down a darkened alleyway Arya picked her way through the trash and refuse, arriving at the meeting point at exactly the same time as her contact.

“So?” she asked impatiently.

The contact, a man whose face she had never really seen, that had introduced himself with the name ‘Lance’, grinned at her beneath his hood.

“Still alive, huh kid?” he asked, purposely moving so that the coin purse on his hip jingled with the motion. “Got anything good for me tonight?”

Arya nodded, pulling a tattered piece of paper out of her cloak.

“The guards’ patrol routes are going to be changing next month,” she said, passing the ratty map she had drawn to him. “This is the new route that the Old Town guards are going to be taking.”

Lance looked down at the paper before nodding once and digging a few coins out of his pouch.

“Good work, kid,” he said, placing them in her outstretched hand. “And good timing. A new job’s come up and it’s right up your alley.”

“No,” Arya said instantly. “I don’t want to play spy for you anymore.”

“Then aren’t you lucky it’s legitimate work,” Lance sneered, holding her out a new piece of paper. “House Rommel needs workers for their warehouses. They’re so desperate they’re even hiring Plegians. I figured you could go legit and get some juicy titbits of info for me, too.”

Arya considered this a moment, crossing her arms and tapping her foot as she thought.

“And this is it?” she asked. “This one last job and I’m out?”

“Trust me kid,” Lance laughed as he began to blend back into the shadows. “After this job, you’ll have enough money to buy a whole village in that sandbox you call a homeland.”

* * *

Idallia squinted a little as she stepped out of her carriage, her booted feet meeting the hard compacted dirt of the Southern Ylissean vineyard that Alvin called his centre of operations. Looking around her at the bustle of activity and movement she could easily see why it would hold such a title; even through harvest season was still a few months away the workers were moving with purpose, creating the casks and barrels to ferment the wine in, working out in the fields that stretched around the resplendent villa as far as her eye could see, not to mention the guards patrolling the perimeter of the warehouses fully armed and armoured.

“Lady Idallia, welcome to my home,” Alvin said with a huge grin on his face as he stepped out of the carriage after her.

“It is most impressive,” she admitted, glancing over her shoulder as the sound of hoof-beats finally caught up with the carriage.

Two knights wearing Rommel Clan livery pounded up beside the carriage, both wearing heavy armour and full-face helms.

“Let us not tarry,” Alvin said, taking off toward the villa. “I’m sure you’re eager to see why I called you out here.”

Idallia nodded silently, signalling the knights. One dismounted, his heavy boots matching her pace as he followed the two merchants into the villa. All around the merchants curious eyes watched their progress across the yard; owing to the fact that Alvin wasn’t a part of one of the larger merchant clans he rarely brought outsiders to the villa, so whenever a new arrival appeared it was a cause for the staff to take notice. A trio of servants in smart black suits met them at the entrance to the villa’s main building, the oldest man, a dignified old man on the upper-range of sixty with long white hair and a drooping moustache, stepping forward and bowing low to them before silently opening the doors.

“Welcome back, sir,” he said in a dignified tone. “The item is with the mages in the cellar.”

“And our other project?” Alvin asked as he strode by the servants, barely sparing them a glance.

The head servant matched pace with Alvin, Idallia and her guard following behind them as the other two servants brought up the rear. The guard glanced over his shoulder at the two servants, his hand dipping slightly towards the hilt of the sword at his hip, causing the two younger men to pale and maintain extra distance from their guests.

“The mages have been working around the clock,” the older servant said. “With the item in question as their catalyst there has been no further issue at all.”

Alvin nodded, a satisfied grin on his face as he continued to walk. The older merchant spared Idallia a glance over his shoulder, his grin widening.

“I told you that you could trust me,” he chuckled, before adding “partner.”

Idallia rolled her eyes as they were led through a decadent receiving hall, much like that of any other successful merchant. Paintings and statues lined the plush carpets, the paintings mostly of vineyards from around the globe. A bust of the previous Exalt, Emmeryn, caught Idallia’s eye for a moment before they were led through a doorway and into a comfortable receiving room. Alvin wasted no time blowing right through the room and out the other side, leading the group silently into the servant passages of the villa.

“And what of the harvest?” he asked his chamberlain idly as they walked. “Is there going to be enough hands this time, or are we going to have to bring in help from outside again?”

“If we are careful about rotating the shifts there should be no issue, sir,” the chamberlain assured Alvin. “Although it would do to have a few extra hands on, just to be safe. Sir Abdul was kind enough to offer his services again.”

“Bah,” Alvin scoffed, turning another corner and descending a flight of stairs. “Leave the sand-rats in their desert. Every time we hire from across the border they eat more product than they pick. Worse comes to worse we’ll send some people to go ‘encourage’ the southern islanders to sign up again.”

“I shall make the necessary arrangements, sir,” the chamberlain said with a bow before peeling off from the group at the bottom of the stairs.

Idallia hesitated as her feet touched the cold stonework of the cellar, the scent of wine pervading the air and everything around them. Of course one of the biggest Ylissean winemakers would have a giant cellar beneath his vineyard, but as she looked down the hallway running either direction of the stairs she was surprised to note that she couldn’t see the end of either side.

“Impressive, right?” Alvin asked, instantly turning to the right and heading away from the villa. “These were all originally natural caverns. All we did to a lot of the deeper rooms was level out the floors. Makes a perfect place to let the wine settle. And to hide things that could potentially get us into trouble.”

Idallia nodded as she followed him, the quiet chinking of her escort’s armour the only sound echoing around them.

“What do you want to see first?” Alvin asked conversationally before letting out a chuckle. “Ah, it doesn’t really matter when they’re in the same room, does it?”

“What did you servant mean by ‘with the item in question’?” Idallia asked suspiciously.

“It was what we were missing,” Alvin said excitedly. “A catalyst for the mages to work with. A powerful… well, you’ll see for yourselves in a minute.”

They walked on in silence for another few minutes before coming into a large room, seemingly chosen at random, off the main hallway. Rough stone walls dotted with empty racks that would normally have held casks of wine covered the walls in their entirety, the ceiling in the low chamber held up by wooden posts. Clearly more racks had been removed from the centre of the room, judging from the scuff-marks all over the ground, but Idallia registered all of this as an afterthought as her gaze fell on the centre of the room.

Pushing past the excited Alvin the younger merchant stepped towards the knot of robed men in the centre of the room, between them…

“It worked,” Idallia muttered, laying eyes on the full-grown gryphon chained to the floor.

The mages looked up, clearly exhausted from their efforts but satisfied as they stepped away from the creature.

“Excellent timing,” the leader of the mages that Idallia had hired from Ylisstol’s Mage Academy, Clarus, said with a tired grin. “We just finished.”

The gryphon bristled as Idallia approached it, eyeing her warily. It was hard to believe that the creature, the size of a small horse now, had still been a juvenile when they had left it here. She moved without fear, though, as it was clear that the creature was securely chained down. Leather wraps held its great wings to its body, and thick chains and shackles secured it to the ground. A rough leather muzzle clenched its beak closed, but still it hissed through its nose at her.

The knight that had followed Idallia stepped past her suddenly, and began to roughly undo the straps on the gryphon’s muzzle, much to the mages terror.

“Wait, don’t!” Clarus warned. “It’s not tame yet! You’ll be-”

He stopped as the muzzle came loose and the gryphon lunged, its beak crunching down on the knight’s gauntlet. The mages and servants flew into a panic, but Idallia and Alvin watched on with bemused expressions. Alvin actually chuckled a little. The gryphon continued to latch onto the calm knight’s gauntlet as he tried to pull back, earning a harsh cuff upside the head from the man’s free hand. Releasing the armour with a yelp the gryphon slunk back, clacking its beak and hissing menacingly.

“Do you have any idea how long it took us to get that muzzle on-” one of the younger mages started, stepping towards the knight angrily.

He never finished his question, falling back with his throat slit and gurgling as the knight lowered his dagger. The young mage tried to gasp, blood pooling around his form as the room went silent, the knight stepping over to the mage before stomping down in his ruined neck with one heavy armoured boot.

Maris pulled the full-faced helm he was wearing over his head, lank purple hair falling down into his eyes as he glared at the remaining three mages cowering away from him with sunken, black-ringed eyes. In the last year he had attempted to grow a rough beard to hide the brand on his face, but the top of the circle still protruded on his cheek through the thick purple hair.

“It’s not big enough yet,” Maris growled, tossing his helm aside with a loud clatter. “I’m heavy. He needs to be able to carry me.”

The gryphon eyed Maris again as he approached, calmer this time in the face of his master. The knight reached up, running a gauntleted hand over the gryphon’s crest.

“And don’t muzzle my mount again,” he added threateningly over his shoulder, glaring in particular at Alvin and Idallia.

* * *

Chrom let out a tired sigh as he ran his hand through his hair, the Exalt sitting up to stretch his back in the hard chair he used in his office. He had found that he didn’t have a choice but to use the hardest, most uncomfortable chair he could find for the days that he dedicated to paperwork; otherwise he simply fell asleep at the desk.

With a satisfying pop Chrom’s back snapped back into position, the Ylissean ruler letting out a tired yawn as he gazed out the window. There was a knock on his study’s door, and with a disinterested grunt Chrom settled his chin on his hand and continued to stare out the window.

“It is still only mid-afternoon, milord,” Frederick said, opening the door and stepping into the room.

Chrom snorted, grinning a little. Out of all of his servants, even his Wing-Commander Cordelia who had ridden against the dark dragon Grima at his side, Frederick was the only one brave enough to step into the study unless expressly bidden to do so. The grunt Chrom had given would have scared any others off, but Frederick had always seemed to ignore Chrom’s not-so-subtle hints and warnings.

“What is it now, Frederick?” Chrom mumbled, still staring out the window. “You’re the Knight Commander. Don’t you have underlings to deliver your messages? Besides, I’m still trying to come up with a solution for the labourer shortage in the southern farmlands here…”

The Knight Commander, for such was Frederick’s rank, crossed the small study in a few quick strides, the tall man’s long legs eating up the space in seconds. Rather than the armour Chrom had come to associate the man with over the years he was wearing his crisp white and black suit, the same small black ribbon tied at his throat, holding his collar as always.

“Of course milord,” Frederick nodded, placing a small stack of papers, reports most likely, on the table.

“And I do, in fact, make use of my ‘underlings’,” the bigger man went on. “However, considering that this information is something that you asked me to procure for you personally…”

Chrom glanced up, lethargically taking the papers and beginning to leaf through them.

“So rebuilding is going according to plan,” Chrom stated, before sighing and tossing the report onto his table.

“Milord?” Frederick asked, somewhat perplexed.

“What the hell is he doing?” Chrom growled, planting his face in his hands.

“I assume you mean Robin, sire?” Frederick asked.

“Of course I mean Robin,” Chrom snapped. “Do you know anyone else that can get under my skin like this?”

“I assume you mean besides myself?” Frederick deadpanned, quirking one brow on his otherwise serious face.

Chrom let out a haggard sigh, letting his head fall onto his desk.

“Why didn’t he just come to us for help?” The Exalt asked at last. “He won’t let me send labourers to speed the rebuilding, he won’t let me send money to help him rebuild, he won’t even let me send Vaike and the other Shepherds to keep watch over the rebuilding! What is going on with him?”

Unseen by his lord Frederick frowned slightly, the weight of the other report in his hands weighing a little heavier on his conscience now as he subtly moved it behind his back.

“Perhaps he does not want you to over-extend yourself, milord?” Frederick suggested soothingly. “Your popularity as a peace-time Exalt plummeted after the tax increase to rebuild Themis, and the labourer shortage in the agricultural areas is beginning to become a crisis, despite the over-population in the capitals.”

“I know,” Chrom groaned, falling for Frederick’s diversion perfectly. “We just need to… incentivise the people still clinging to the capitals to go back out. We need to show them it’s safe now, and they don’t have to fear being attacked in their own homes anymore.”

“These things take time, milord,” Frederick said with a bow. “It may help if I increase the patrols of the knights for a short period.”

“Then go do that,” Chrom sighed, sitting back up and reaching for his papers again, the report Frederick had brought to him going unnoticed as it fell off the table. “I just need to figure out how to work this stupid incentive into the budget we have without making the palace go hungry… The girls already complain that we eat such Spartan food, and Lissa keeps giving me dirty looks at dinner.”

Frederick nodded, the knowledge that the Ylissean Royal Family were on the same rations as the palace guard ate not new information to him, and subtly retreated from the room. As he reached the door, though, he was brought up short as Chrom called out to him.

“What’s that other report, Frederick?” the Exalt asked tiredly.

“It is nothing, Milord,” the Knight-Commander answered without hesitation. “Simply a troop disposition update that I am delivering to my beloved on my way back to my office.”

Chrom nodded, clearly having lost interest again already, and Frederick slipped out into the hall. Once he had left the Royal Apartments Frederick let out a soft sigh of his own, glancing down at the report still in his hand. He was in the Knight’s Wing now, which housed the Royal Guard, the Knight and Pegasus-Knight orders; it was also his home away from home, the place he felt most comfortable. Which was probably why he didn’t notice the fact someone had snuck up on him until they were right behind him, he was so occupied with his inner turmoil.

“Frederick?” Cordelia asked, stopping a few paces away from him.

The Knight Commander glanced up at his wife in surprise. She was every bit as striking as she had been when they had first met nearly ten years ago; her silver armour had been cleaned to a mirror sheen, and her long red hair fell down her shoulders like a waterfall of flame, pinned back at the temples by her favourite little wing-patterned hair-clips as always.

“Ah, I was just coming to find you,” he said, dropping his hands and subtly placing the report out of sight. “Lord Chrom wants us to increase our patrol presence in the Southlands for a time.”

Cordelia smiled up at her husband, taking his free hand and walking side-by side with him through the halls.

“Then I suppose we had best get started on the rosters,” Cordelia suggested. “Cynthia and the other Knights will be happy for the extra work, but Severa will be upset if we are home late again.”

Frederick scoffed a little as they walked, subtly shoving the report into his pocket before anyone else could see it.

“I was hoping that the girl would lack her future-self’s temper,” he admitted in a low voice, causing his wife to chuckle a little.

* * *

“Well, that was almost a new record,” Alvin sighed, sinking into a plush chair behind his desk. “What was that? Nearly half an hour before he killed something? That’s progress, at least.”

“I needed that man,” Clarus muttered, shakily pouring himself a glass of brandy at the sidebar.

“We need every man!” Alvin snapped, losing his temper. “I can’t have that psychopath running around our operation killing every person that looks at him sideways!”

Idallia chose to remain silent, crossing her arms as she looked at Alvin across his desk. They were in the merchant’s office, a rather austere and simple room compared to the rest of the villa, but it was a wholly practical space that Idallia could respect. She sighed, moving to sit across from Alvin with Clarus as they moved to discuss the matter of the mystery ‘item’ that had been forgotten after the events that had taken place that afternoon.

“So then,” Idallia decided to lead. “What was this ‘item’ that you were so excited about?”

“Right, right,” Alvin sighed, dismissively waving towards Clarus as he took a deep and calming breath.

The mage, still pale and shaky, drained his glass before pulling a small lump of what appeared to be some form of ore out of his robes. The lumpy black mass, shot through with deep red lines that looked like veins in the weak evening light, made Idallia sick to look at, but her curiosity overcame the sense of unease that the thing instilled her with.

“This… this is but a small piece of what we’ve found,” Clarus said, regaining his composure as he talked. “The ore has unique magical properties, but is incredibly hard to find. It is never buried deep in the earth, but once we find a deposit we know that the area will contain no more. Quite often a deposit is a small shard. This is the largest we have found so far.”

“What is it?” Idallia asked, leaning forward to study the ore.

“We don’t know,” Clarus shrugged. “And there are no senior Dark Mages left to ask. None of the Druids we could find know either. But what we do know is that it’s powerful.”

Idallia nodded, opening her mouth to speak before another voice cut her off.

“Could it be turned into a weapon?” Maris asked, stepping into the room.

Clarus visibly gulped, trembling a little before shaking his head.

“Possibly,” the mage explained, “But it would need to be forged with another metal. I’m no blacksmith, but the ore is very soft.”

Maris stomped over, free now of his armour but still wearing his dark riding clothes, and took the lump of ore from the trembling mage. He held it up to the light, his expression softening for the barest of moments as he turned the lump over in his hands before hardening again.

“Use it to finish with Invincible and then forge it into a greatsword,” Maris ordered, thrusting the ingot back at Clarus. “Use mythril. Spare no expense. If there’s enough left I want it spread out in my armour.”

“In… Invincible?” the mage repeated as the knight stalked from the room.

“It sounds like he’s named his mount,” Alvin chuckled, before looking lazily out the window and adding, “I’d be quick about finishing with that ore if I were you.”

Clarus swallowed and nodded, practically leaping to his feet and fleeing the room, heading for the closest set of stairs to the cellar. Alvin shook his head before reaching beneath his desk and pulling a sheaf of papers out, tossing them towards Idallia.

“Here,” he said, leaning back in his chair again. “Congratulations. We now own the city of Silva. Legally.”

Idallia nodded and reached for the deeds, beginning to look through them with a sense of elation in her chest. They were getting closer. Now all they needed was for Maris to keep things together long enough to get to the next Khan-Meet, and their dream would become a reality.

Her gaze lingered on the door her unstable brother had left through, and Idallia couldn’t help but wonder which one of them was truly in charge. Alvin chuckled, seeming to share her sentiments.

“He’s still useful,” the older merchant said in a light tone. “For now, anyway.”

“And when he no longer poses any use?” Idallia asked in a low voice.

Alvin shrugged. “I’m sure you know what will have to be done if he can’t be reined in. We’ve come too far for him to screw it all up now.”

Idallia nodded slowly in agreement, her gaze never leaving the empty door.

* * *

Arya panted heavily as her feet pounded on the stone streets of Themis’ Old Town, skidding a little as she took a turn into an alleyway to throw off her pursuers. She cursed under her breath as she stumbled on a loose stone in the darkened pathway, catching herself before she could fall face first. She cursed again, louder this time, when the sounds of pursuit followed her into the alley.

“There she is!”

“Don’t let her get away!”

“Go ‘round to the other side!”

“Get back here, desert-rat!”

With a show of dexterity that left the men pursuing her in complete awe Arya kicked off the ground, bouncing off one of the alleyway’s more stable-looking walls onto the other before finding a handhold in the form of a loosened brick and clambering up onto the squat building’s roof, a shower of dust and loose masonry marking her ascent.

“Some… someone go through the house! Hurry before we lose her again!” one of the men beneath her shouted indignantly.

Arya groaned and collapsed onto one knee on the rooftop, taking deep lungfuls of breath as she willed her heartbeat to slow. She only had a few minutes at best before her pursuers beat down the building’s doors and climbed up to her, but she hadn’t eaten in days, and she was getting dangerously close to collapsing.

With a pained grunt she pushed herself back up and into a run, leaping across the next alleyway to the adjoining building. That was the good thing about Old Town; the majority of the buildings around the Market Street were all the same height, and close enough together that you could hear your neighbour fart in the night. It was admittedly making Arya’s life a lot easier now, but the tight alleyways were usually a pain; they were great short-cuts, but in the semi-lawless Old Town they were also the perfect places for muggers and thieves to hide, waiting for prey.

Judging from the shouting from behind and below her, the men were back on the trail of the girl, hounding her like animals. A few arrows whizzed by, shot by an inexperienced or rushed hand and missing her completely.

All of this over a few miserable shipping papers! Somehow word had made it to her employers, the Rommel Merchant Clan, that she had once worked for the information broker Lance; a man who had long-since been murdered by his competitors in just such a dark alley after Arya had severed ties with him when he’d refused to pay her. But ‘once a thief, always a thief’ was apparently a popular saying in Ylisse, and now she was being chased for ‘questioning’. A few other labourers that she had worked with had gone for ‘questioning’, too, and had wound up being found in Old Town dead every single time.

It probably didn’t help that she was Plegian, but that was another problem for another time.

Arya grunted again as she leapt across another gap, trying desperately to put distance between herself and her pursuers, her thoughts running wild as she forced her exhausted body to continue running.

However, because she was so tired she missed the warning signs as she ran heavily across the roof of the old building beneath her. With a loud crack the dilapidated roof gave out beneath her, and Arya felt a brief moment of weightlessness as she fell with the rubble into the building beneath her.

Everything went dark and close for a few moments, the world seeming to stop as Arya registered the fact she was still alive. With a shuddering breath that turned into a hacking cough she pulled herself out of the rubble, doubling over as her body fought to expel the dust from her lungs.

How long had she been running now, she wondered absently. And more importantly, how long were these goons going to keep chasing her?

* * *

Adrik growled as he leapt across alleyways, doing his best to keep pace with his smaller, nimble target.

He was having a bad day, that much was certain. The little desert-rat spy that was currently doing her best to out-run him was just the icing on the cake. In fact ever since the debacle in Silva a year ago his life had gone to hell in a hand-basket; Maris had got caught and subsequently gone nuts, merchant spies had popped up everywhere around the Rommel clan, and now even the Ylissean Knights were starting to nose around.

He grunted, landing awkwardly as he leapt across another gap. At least he could focus on the objective before him, rather than think big-picture. That was more the Captain and Maurice’s thing.

He had his orders; the girl had stolen important information she had subsequently sold to an information broker, and while Maris was away Adrik was supposed to find out what she’d sold, and then disappear her.

Finally, though, some luck came his way and the girl fell through the roof of the next building.

“Darin! Erik! Go in through the ground floor!” he called out to his two men following her on the street before looking over his shoulder. “Ars, you’re with me!”

There was no affirmative call from the street below them, but that would hardly be considered unusual during a chase; Ars just nodded behind him, the younger man panting as he struggled to keep pace with Adrik. They stopped just short of jumping onto the next roof like the girl had, carefully bounding across onto the sections of roof that seemed most stable. Adrik leapt carefully into the building beneath them, landing on the second story floor that the girl had apparently also fallen through. He blinked a few times as Ars dropped down with him, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the pitch black of the abandoned building.

“Remember,” Adrik muttered, “We want her alive.”

“Funny, I was just about to say the same thing.”

Adrik and Ars both spun, raising their short-swords and desperately looking around. There was the sound of deep, animal-like chuckling, so quiet it was more like a whisper in the dark. Ars swallowed audibly as Adrik fumbled for his flint, striking the two pieces together to make a spark and-

Ars gave a throaty scream as he fell to the floor and was dragged away, leaving Adrik alone in the darkened building.

“What’s wrong, little man-spawn?” the deep voice asked, almost purring.

Adrik didn’t answer, starting to sweat as he desperately tried to light the small torch he kept in his equipment pouch.

“Too nervous to talk?” the voice asked from behind him. “That’s cute.”

Adrik finally managed to get the rags at the top of the torch lit, spinning and brandishing it like a weapon at the empty building behind him. He stared at it for a few brief moments in confusion before he felt something collide with his back, knocking him face first as a snarling _something_ bore down on him. He kicked, managing to get it off of him enough to roll onto his back and look up at the giant talking wolf that was bearing down on him.

“Surprise,” the wolf growled, baring its fangs at him.

With a wordless howl of terror Adrik ran from the building, colliding with Darin and Erik on his way out and sending the three of them sprawling.

“Adrik, what’s-” Darin managed before Adrik screamed again.

“Run for your lives!” he shrieked. “Back to the Villa! Retreat!”

There was a low growl as the wolf stepped into the weak illumination of the moonlight streaming through the building’s doorway, and the other two men paled as Adrik took off like a shot. With similar shouts of fear they followed after him, leaving the wolf to snicker in a very human fashion.

“Yes, very funny,” a lower voice said from behind the wolf as a massive man stepped into the light, the unconscious form or Ars dangling from one of his meaty hands.

“You frightened the man-spawn,” he went on, dropping the unconscious man at his feet. “But you let the girl get away.”

The wolf shook its head, sitting back on its haunches. As it sat back the horse-sized wolf began to shrink, transforming into a tall woman with a mangy mane of auburn hair, blazing amber eyes and a wicked grin on her face. The man stepped towards her, his bare chest and face covered in old scars and his thick beard swaying with ornate beads and braids. Both of them wore barely any clothes; a simple leather loincloth on both, and the woman wearing a thin leather vest to hide her chest at her alpha’s request.

“I don’t care, let the other man-spawn deal with it,” she shrugged, crossing her arms. “That was the most fun I’ve had since we were dragged across the ocean.”

“The alpha was insistent on-” the big man started before the woman cut him off.

“I know what Robin said,” she snapped, the tail protruding over the top of her loincloth swishing irritably. “I was there, you know. And I still don’t like him.”

Kowrowa rolled his eyes, crossing his own arms as he huffed a breath through his nose and glared at the smaller woman. Ita glared back up at him challengingly, her grin still in place.

“Come on, Kow,” she goaded. “Tell me it wasn’t funny.”

Kowrowa sighed, shaking his head.

“Only a little,” he admitted, a grin touching the edges of his fanged mouth.

* * *

Hin’rath wore a rare frown on his face as he strode purposefully through the Rommel Clan’s villa, the other servants moving out of his path and refusing to meet his eyes when they spotted him for fear of earning his wrath.

It was late. He was tired. He still had a mountain of paperwork to take care of while Lady Idallia was away. And now…

“Idiots!” he roared as he stormed into the guard house.

Several of the assembled men looked up, the rest cowering from him, Adrik in the centre of the group pale and shaking as he faced down his employer’s second in command.

“What part of ‘capture the girl’ was too complicated for you dirt-farming inbred hicks!?” the slight man continued to rage.

“Th-there were monsters in Old-Town, and-” Adrik started before Hin’rath cut him off.

“There are monsters in here, too,” the Chon’sin native growled, his usually melodious voice low and dangerous.

The room went deadly silent for a brief moment before Maurice stepped forward, placing a protective hand on Adrik’s shoulder.

“We’ll get her, don’t worry,” the old man promised.

“If you come back empty handed again you die,” Hin’rath stated simply, before turning on his heel and storming out of the guard house.

Adrik practically crumpled into the closest chair, one of the other men passing him a mug full of cheap wine to help take the edge off. Maurice turned around, looking at the rest of the assembled men. There were thirty warriors, all told, not including the villa’s dedicated guard force of ten. That was what he had to work with. It would be more than enough.

“Right you lot,” Maurice announced. “Get kitted up! All of you! It’s all hands on deck for this one, ‘cause I sure as hell don’t want to listen to that nancy-boy yes-man talk to us like that again! Bring torches and light armour. We’ll burn Old Town back down to the ground if that’s what it takes.”

* * *

Arya collapsed in the relative safety of another darkened alleyway, gasping for breath as she desperately hid herself behind a pile of refuse. Curling into a tight ball she closed her eyes and waited for her heartbeat to slow down.

_What were those things!?_ She wondered, looking up again with wide eyes and tearing the hood off of her mousy brown hair.

They had been waiting for her in the darkness; beasts of some kind, like a wolf the size of a bear. But when the smaller one had locked eyes with her she had seen human intelligence behind its gaze. Grima, it looked like the beast had actually smiled at her.

She shuddered at the thought, pushing herself back to her feet, reminding herself that she wasn’t safe yet.

How long had she been running now? Long enough for the Rommels to mount a more thorough search, in her mind. She needed to get out of the city, and soon. Make for the border, get back to Plegia and lay low in the desert. The Rommels had ties in Plegia, but they were supposedly tenuous at best, so Arya would make the best of that and lay low in her homeland for a while.

Glancing over her shoulder to make sure that there were no glowing amber eyes watching her in the shadows Arya tugged her hood up over her head again and stepped out onto the dimly lit street, angling for the closest city gate.

She moved quickly, trying to look inconspicuous as she watched all directions around her. She was rushing, though, so it felt like she was going to give herself away if anyone from the Rommel Clan spotted her… but the thought of those eyes in the darkness made her shudder and pick up her pace again. Arya glanced up, looking at the sky and the position of the stars to help her gauge how much time had gone by while she had been panicking, and let out a curse. She had spent more than an hour fleeing before collecting herself; more than enough time for the Rommel Clan to send out more men looking for her.

The usually boisterous streets of Old Town were deserted; even in the pre-dawn hours there were always crooks and thugs out looking to make a quick coin, or drunks stumbling home for the night. But the streets were empty. The people of old town knew that the Rommels were out for blood that night, and no one wanted to be caught in the crossfire.

Arya stumbled a little, righting herself and disappearing into another alleyway. She could feel their eyes on her back; the denizens of Old Town. They watched her, collectively breathing a sigh of ‘better her than me’. She cursed the Ylisseans as cowards as she ducked her head low, scrunching her face up as frustrated tears threatened to spill out of her eyes.

She hadn’t done anything wrong! She hadn’t stolen anything! So why was she being hunted? Because she wanted to leave the Rommel Clan’s employ? Hardly a reason to kill her.

She stopped suddenly, ducking into the shadows of the alley mouth as booted feet ran up the street outside of the opening. Arya watched as a blonde man in Feroxi clothes and two red-haired women rushed by, clearly looking for someone. She blinked as she watched them pass; they were unknown to her. Mercenaries, perhaps?

It didn’t matter; soon the trio was gone around the corner, and Arya was left alone again. Taking a deep breath she darted into the street, making for the next alleyway, when a shout stopped her dead in her tracks, her terrified gaze snapping up.

“Hold, friend!” the blonde man called to her, rushing back up the street. “I, Owain Dark, mean you no harm! My sword hand lies still and-”

Arya didn’t listen to the rest of his speech, darting down the closest alleyway and back into the shadows. From the street she could hear frustrated yelling from one of the women as their footsteps increased in pace.

“Gawds, Owain! You couldn’t keep your trap shut, could you!?”

“Time is money, and you just cost us a lot!”

“It matters not!” the man cried in his defence. “For we’ve spotted her, and- gah, Severa stop hitting me!”

“Then run quietly! The whole town is gonna know what we’re doing if you don’t shut it!”

Arya had to resist the urge to laugh out loud at the mercenaries chasing her; there was no way they were Rommel employees. They were too unprofessional, too loud, and clearly too stupid. In fact it was almost like they wanted the others to know where they-

“There she is!” the familiar voice of one of the Rommel Clan’s guards shouted from the other side of the alley.

Arya looked up, cursing the fact that she’d been tricked into another pincer move. More guards filled into the mouth of the alley, and with energy that the exhausted girl didn’t know she had she kicked off the ground, leaping up to grab the window ledge of the closest building before pulling herself up to the roof again.

Once she was there Arya collapsed, rolling onto her back and heaving deep, exhausted breaths. She couldn’t do that again. She just didn’t have it left to do it again.

“Dammit all, not again!” the Guard shouted. “Into the buildings! Don’t let her escape-”

“By the sealed sword I say nay!” the blonde man from before shouted, cutting the Rommel Guard off.

Arya glanced over the ledge of the building, still panting and gasping for breath, her exhausted limbs shaking, before her jaw dropped. The three strangers from the street had drawn their weapons and were running, sprinting, towards the Rommel Guards. The blonde man at their head was grinning ferally, his eyes wide and excited as he crashed into the Rommel Guards with what sounded like a guttural Feroxi war cry, the red-haired woman with the twintails right behind him, rolling her eyes as if she were used to such antics from the man. The other woman skidded to a stop, looking up to near where Arya was hiding. With a squeak she pulled her head back into safety, cursing herself as a fool for watching when she should have been running.

“If you can hear me, run!” the woman in the alley shouted. “We’ll hold them here, but you need to get away!”

Arya’s eyes widened, and she only hesitated for a moment before pushing herself back to her feet and taking off running again. She forced her exhausted muscles to move, propelling her along the rooftop again and across the gap to the next before sliding down a pole back to ground level. Arya looked both directions, deciding to keep going toward the Town Gate. Whoever the other guys were, they were giving her an out, and she was going to take it.

* * *

An hour later Arya collapsed again in the shadows of another alley, gasping for breath as she tried to hide herself from view.

“N-no more…” she whimpered, curling up again.

She couldn’t take another step. She was exhausted, hungry, and scared. Arya was tempted to just let the Rommels take her, end her suffering and be done with it.

_Keep going_ , a little voice said in her head. _Keep running. Get to the gate. Get outside the city. You can still do it._

“I can’t…” she groaned, leaning to the side and beginning to pass out.

She jerked awake as something dropped into her lap. A small vial, filled with brackish brown liquid sat in her lap. Arya blinked down at it before slowly lifting her gaze up and seeing three new faces. Or two new faces and a mask.

“Get up,” the young man, clearly only a few years older than her, growled irritatedly.

The foreign woman, a beauty the likes of which Arya had never seen before, glowered at him silently, but held her tongue. She and the man were both wearing black coats, his hood pulled up over short dark hair while hers was back to reveal a long ponytail.

“Come on,” the third, a man wearing a slit-eyed blue mask said encouragingly, his short blue hair swaying with his every motion. “Drink that, and it will give you strength. Make for the gate while we lead them off your trail. Find Robin. He’ll protect you.”

He stood from where he was crouching before Arya, offering her an encouraging smile before turning to the other two.

“She gets to that gate,” the masked man declared.

“So we get to go play distraction again,” the younger man sighed, rolling his arms around a little beneath his coat. “Great. Just great.”

The woman simply nodded, casting a furtive glance over to Arya before the trio moved back out to the street and left Arya alone, lost for words and wondering just what in Grima’s name was going on.

 She looked down at the vial, giving it a quick glance before unstoppering it. She sniffed the contents, wrinkling her nose at the acrid stink. Arya sighed, deciding she had nothing to lose, and upended the vial’s contents into her mouth. She coughed, the spicy liquid burning a trail down to her stomach, but energizing her at the same time. Within a few seconds Arya climbed timidly back to her feet, looking around the abandoned alley again.

“Who… are these people?” she wondered out loud, looking to the end of the alleyway that the two men and one woman had left from. “Who… is Robin?”

Arya shook the thoughts out of her head as the sound of more shouting reached her from the street as the mysterious trio met more of the Rommel Clan’s thugs. Arya winced, running while others fought for her to escape for a second time. She was close to the city wall now, though, and the gate wasn’t much farther away.

She stepped back out onto the street angling for the old city wall. The time to be cautious by taking the long way was over. Clearly the Rommels had moved out in force, and would be watching every approach. Arya just had to surprise them by taking the direct one and break through whatever they had waiting. She didn’t doubt that she could, either, after that strange potion the masked man had given her. Arya rounded the corner onto the next street, full of confidence, and let out a sudden yelp as she collided with the man that had chased her across the roofs earlier, sending them both to the ground in a heap.

“Grah! Bloody sand-rat!” he roared, throwing the lighter girl off and climbing to his feet. “Let’s see you get away now!”

Arya backed up a little, keenly aware that she couldn’t risk doubling back again. Over the man’s shoulder she spotted at least ten more Rommel men racing up the street. With a sinking feeling of resignation Arya drew the small dagger from the small of her back, stepping back into a fighting stance. She wasn’t about to make it easy for them, despite her earlier fatalistic thoughts.

The man smirked, drawing his sword and signalling with his empty hand for the men behind him not to interfere.

“I only have to take you in alive, sand-rat,” he growled, spitting the racial slur out with particular venom. “They didn’t say just how alive, though. I’m going to enjoy this.”

He raised his sword, Arya backpedalling and bringing up her dagger to fend off a blow that never came. Instead the man from before, the one in the black coat with short dark purple hair suddenly appeared between them, his arms and legs surrounded with a strange green glow that faded as he drew his fist back and the Rommel soldier staggered backwards, his face a bloody mess and his nose broken.

“Sand-rat, huh?” the man growled, a ferocious look on his face. “You just made this personal, dirt-farmer.”

Arya watched, astonished, as the man in the coat lunged forward faster than her eyes could follow, the green glow returning to his limbs as he threw punch after punch at the Rommel soldier. Every blow was accompanied by a sudden gust of wind, throwing Arya’s cloak around as she backed away.

The man, obviously another Plegian judging from his reaction to the racial slur that the soldier had used, danced between the soldiers, striking with his bare fists and that strange green glowing wind at weak points between armour plates, moving faster than the Rommel men could react. Arya jumped again as the masked man and the silent woman rushed past her, blades drawn as they rushed to their comrade’s aid.

“Get to the gate!” the masked man shouted before he spun, his huge and beautiful greatsword forcing the Rommel men back again.

Arya watched in stunned silence for another second before spinning and running towards the comparative safety of the closest alleyway, ignoring the enraged shouts from the Rommel soldiers as the three strangers held them all at bay. Arya couldn’t help but cast a glance over her shoulder and wonder, again, just who these people were, before she disappeared into the dark alleyway.

* * *

The sounds of men shouting were everywhere now; torchlight bounced off the walls of Old Town and reduced Arya’s precious shadows to almost nothing. It appeared as if the entire Rommel Clan had shown up to hunt for her. Worse, it appeared that the entire Rommel Merchant Clan was congregated right in front of the broken old City Gate that was across the large square from Arya, open and inviting.

It had been a long night, but the sky was beginning to lighten. Arya shook the exhaustion she once again felt out of her head, focusing on escaping the city. If she didn’t get out before the dawn she was as good as dead. There would be nowhere for her to hide in the daylight.

Arya looked forlornly at the gate over the heads of at least twenty armed soldiers and even more of the warehouse workers that had quite clearly been pressed into service. There was a wall of bodies between Arya and the gate, and she didn’t know what to do. The houses and other buildings stopped almost two hundred meters back from the gates, and there was literally no cover between them and the massive wall. She couldn’t go back, either; more Rommel men were stalking the streets, and their harsh voices and hurried footsteps were getting closer and closer.

She was trapped and out of options.

Arya stepped back from the corner, moving to the fading shadows and sinking down with her back against the closest wall, the harsh bricks scratching at her through her thin clothes and cloak.

What could she do? She didn’t see a way through the crowd, let alone out of the city. Freedom and comparative safety was only two hundred meters away, but it may as well be on the other side of the planet for all the good it did Arya.

She let out a bitter laugh, pulling her dagger out from behind her back and looking at it in the weak pre-dawn light. She could always try to fight her way through and see how far she got. A life on the streets had taught her to fight quick and dirty, and she could probably take a few of them with her, but…

“It’s hopeless,” she sighed, hanging her head.

“Yeah, it sure seems that way,” a strange voice answered her.

Arya looked up, coming face to face with an older man sitting across from her, against the opposite wall. He wore a similar coat to the other two, its hood pulled low over his face. She could tell he was old, though; long white hair the colour of snow hung out near his collar, even if the chin and smiling mouth she could see looked young.

Arya scoffed, twirling the dagger a little in her fingers. She wasn’t even surprised anymore, after everything that had happened that night.

“So are you just going to sit here and wait for them to find you?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.

“Well what would you suggest?” Arya asked heatedly. “I’m sick of running. I didn’t… I didn’t even do anything!”

The man across from her nodded, grinning.

“So you’re innocent, then?” he asked.

“Of course I am,” Arya insisted, before bitterly adding, “they just hate me because… I’m Plegian. Everyone… everyone hates me.”

The hooded man scoffed, smirking all the while.

“I don’t hate you,” he said kindly.

“Yeah, I’ll bet you just want something from me,” Arya said acidly. “Why else would you people be helping me?”

The man shrugged. “Well usually we do this kind of thing for free, but I could actually use your help.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Arya mumbled, looking away.

“Tell you what,” the man said, clapping his hands and standing before taking a few steps towards the city gates. “Why don’t I get you clear of the city, and then we’ll talk. You seem kinda tense sitting here.”

“That is what you were trying to do, right?” he added, hesitating and glancing over his shoulder.

“It’s impossible,” Arya sighed. “There’s got to be at least sixty or seventy guys out there. There’s no way you can get me through alone.”

The man stopped, turning to face her and frowning.

“Tell me,” he said after studying her for a second. “How long did you out-run these guys alone?”

Arya glanced up at the man.

“About three days,” she shrugged.

“How did you do it?” he asked her.

“I know Old Town,” Arya admitted. “It is… was my home. I know its secrets, and I know its tricks.”

“Superior use of knowledge and terrain…” the man muttered, stroking his chin in thought before perking up and looking at her beneath his hood again.

“Know how to fight?” he asked her nonchalantly.

“Yeah,” she admitted hesitantly.

“Show me,” the hooded man instructed. “Keep up with me. You get to the gate on your own two feet, you pass.”

Arya shot to her feet as the strange man stepped out of the alley and towards the gate, seemingly oblivious to the men waiting for him. Arya rushed to the corner, expecting to see the Rommel soldiers descending on the hapless man, but instead was almost blown back by a blast of light and dust. She coughed a few times, blinking her vision clear and looked again.

The stranger stood in the middle of the seventy-odd soldiers, lightning leaping from his outstretched hand as the other spun a thin and elegant rapier around like it was a toy. The man ducked, dodged and weaved his way through the horde, throwing bolts of lightning and balls of fire at the Rommel soldiers or striking lightning fast with his blade as he went, his face never changing from the relaxed grin he wore. He looked back, noticing that Arya wasn’t with him and waved his hand almost lazily, sending a ring of fire expanding around him until there was a circular wall of flames keeping the soldiers off of him.

“You coming?” he called back to Arya, snapping her out of her reverie.

The Plegian girl swallowed once before rushing forward to where the man was waiting for her. The flames separated as she approached, and he grinned down at her.

“Stay close and don’t fall over,” he instructed. “Rule number one of a battlefield; do not fall over. You fall down, you die.”

Arya nodded as the strange man spun on his heel, dispelling the flames with another wave of his hand. They ran after that, the man occasionally parrying the weak blows of the soldiers brave enough to try and close with him, but whatever he had done in that second he had been out of Arya’s sight had totally broken the enemy. A few times the soldiers went for her, but she managed to evade their blows and keep moving, dodging or parrying with her dagger.

It was almost anti-climactic when they emerged into the plains outside of Themis, the man glancing over his shoulder at Arya again as his pace slowed to an idyllic walk while the girl fought to catch her breath.

Arya wondered just what kind of monster she had gotten herself involved with now, but it didn’t seem like he or his friends had meant her harm.

“Pfft, amateurs,” the man laughed. “You’d think they’d never seen a Thoron spell before…”

“So what’s your name, kid?” he asked flippantly, sheathing his sword when he was sure they weren’t being followed yet

“A-Arya,” she managed to gasp, close to collapsing.

“Well, hello Arya,” the stranger said, drawing back his hood to reveal a young face, probably only in his late twenties at the most, framed by snow white hair.

“My name is Robin, and I could really use your help.”


	7. Chapter 7

Arya stumbled along behind the man that had introduced himself as Robin, warily watching the man as she struggled to stay on her feet. Robin just ambled on, humming tunelessly as he led her into the small woodland to the east of Themis, where the Shepherds had historically been forced to evade the Plegian army in the early days of the first Plegian Liberation War. Arya eyed the man again, squinting a little as she tripped and stumbled on an exposed root.

“We’re almost there,” Robin said encouragingly, not even bothering to look behind him. “At least, I think we are… been a while since I’ve been through this way. The forests this far south all look the same to me.”

Arya didn’t dignify his comments with a response, instead focusing on staying on her feet, the man’s advice about not falling on a battlefield still fresh in her mind. After a few more minutes of walking in the weak dawn light they came into a small, well-hidden clearing, where a roaring campfire and the smell of fresh food were waiting.

“I’m back!” Robin sang, halting and indicating that Arya go ahead of him.

“Well it’s ‘bout damn time,” a scary looking man with a scar over one eye, wearing black robes growled, lurching to his feet. “You got any idea how long I’s waitin’? Dinner’s gonna be- aw hell, Boss, not another one.”

The scarred man stopped when he saw Arya, groaning and running a hand down his face as he glared at Robin.

“What?” Robin shrugged, pushing past the robed man towards the fire. “She can help us.”

The man eyed Arya like a piece of meat for a moment before sighing and giving her a light shove towards the fire.

“Y’look like hell, kid,” the man said, his gruff voice now surprisingly kind. “I’m Brady, a priest. Why dontcha have a seat and eat somethin’ ‘fore ya pass out.”

Arya nodded, taking a seat on a fallen log next to Robin as the priest pressed a big bowl of what appeared to be oats into her hands. She glanced up slightly as another man shifted across from her, wearing a similar coat to the man and woman from the previous evening and smiling at her before going back to his reading.

“Eat slow,” Brady instructed. “Ya ain’t eaten in a while, yeah? Yer body’s gonna need time to readjust, so eat slow.”

Arya nodded, resisting the urge to inhale the food presented to her and carefully spooning the thick porridge into her mouth. It was surprisingly good, if a little sweet.

“Gah, did Gaius get at the food again?” Robin exclaimed, making a sour face as he lowered his own spoon.

Brady blinked a few times before spooning a little out of the pot into his own bowl and tasting it. His face scrunched up before he forcibly set the wooden bowl down and leapt back to his feet.

“Dammit, Gaius!” Brady shouted to the forest. “What’d I tell ya!? Leave my cookin’ alone!”

Robin snickered a little as Arya continued to eat, feeling new life beginning to pass through her limbs as her body took in much needed sustenance. She looked up as there was more rustling from the forest and a skinny ginger-haired man stepped into the clearing, grinning unabashedly.

“If you could cook, I wouldn’t need to fix your food,” the new man said.

“I don’t care if yer a first-generation Shepherd or not,” Brady growled, levelling his ladle like a sword at the scrawny man. “Don’t go messin’ with another man’s cookin’!”

“Alright, alright, enough already,” Robin laughed. “Gaius, this is Arya. Arya, that’s my… er…”

“Thief,” Gaius stated simply. “At your service, Squirt.”

Arya nodded slowly as Robin shifted a little, putting his now-empty bowl aside.

“Where are the others?” he asked curiously as Gaius moved to sit across the fire, as far away from a still-fuming Brady as possible.

“Panne said something about hunting,” Gaius explained. “Van’s had his nose buried in that book all night. And Naga only knows where Fae is.”

“Behind you,” a new voice said in a whisper, making the thief leap into the air off his log as Robin and Brady burst into laughter.

A smiling, laughing girl with long purple hair stepped into the clearing from the forest, winking at the flustered Gaius. She wore a simple leather vest and a long, flowing white skirt over her sandals, but still maintained a regal, ethereal air as she sat where Gaius had been, the thief moving to perch next to Brady.

“It’s nice to see someone do that to you for a change,” Robin laughed at the thief, making his frown deepen.

“How’d you go in town?” the woman, Fae, asked Robin, her smile never faltering as she cast a curious gaze over Arya.

“Good,” Robin shrugged. “No casualties. The others should be back soon, and I hopefully got us a guide. This is Arya, by the way.”

“Hello!” Fae said cheerfully. “Nice to meet you!”

“L-likewise,” Arya responded, bobbing her head a little.

She looked around as the group began to talk amongst themselves, Robin giving the other four a basic rundown of his mission in town the previous night as Arya finished eating her food. She looked down at the empty bowl, wondering how much just that one serving of porridge was going to cost her, when she realized that the strangers had stopped talking.

She glanced up, her gaze meeting Robin’s as he smiled at her.

“This must all be pretty over-whelming, yeah?” he asked her. “If you have any questions to ask before we get to what I wanted to ask you, go ahead.”

Arya nodded, choosing to ask the first and most pressing thing that came to her mind.

“Who are you people?” she asked seriously.

“We’re the Shepherds,” Robin answered matter-of-factly, earning a squeal from Fae.

“Eeeeeek! I’m a Shepherd, too!? No way!” she cried happily, bouncing up and down in her excitement.

Arya scoffed.

“Yeah right, you’re the Shepherds,” she said sarcastically. “And I suppose you expect me to believe you’re actually Grandmaster Robin the Godslayer, too?”

She had seen her fair share of con-men and grafter pretending to be members of the elite Ylissean force in Old Town, usually just men trying to get free drinks of mercenaries trying to get work. Why would the Shepherds even bother with a no-name street urchin like her, anyway? They had better things to worry about.

“Former Grandmaster,” Robin shrugged. “And I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s the truth. Godslayer does have a nice ring to it, though…”

“Great, just what he needed,” Brady groaned. “Another ego-boost.”

“All hail to the mighty hero-tactician!” Gaius declared mockingly.

“Hail to the Godslayer!” Van added, and the three other men descended into their own fit of laughter.

Robin rolled his eyes, looking back at Arya.

“Anything else?” he asked kindly, pointedly ignoring his comrades.

“What do you want from me?” Arya asked, taking a deep breath and preparing herself from the worst.

“I’d like you to lead us through the Rommel Merchant Clan’s villa and help me find some stuff,” Robin said nonchalantly. “Then, I want you to come with us and train to be a tactician as my apprentice.”

Arya blinked a few times before chuckling a little at what had to be a joke, looking to the others around the fire to see if they were in on it. Serious yet kind gazes were what met her, making her stop laughing and look back at Robin.

“Wait… you’re serious,” she said slowly. “Are you… really him?”

Robin nodded, grinning.

“You don’t have to believe me right away,” Robin, _the_ Robin, said. “But if you stick with us then I can at least offer you better than scrounging for scraps in alleyways. It’s a hard life, but it’s worth it.”

Arya’s eyes widened as she looked at her savior with new found awe, but he seemed to notice this and clamped down immediately.

“Don’t start with the whole hero-worship thing, please,” Robin sighed. “I hate that. I’m just a man, okay?”

“That slayed a dark god,” Gaius said playfully across the fire.

“Yes, that slayed a- I hate you guys sometimes,” Robin sighed as the other four began to chuckle.

* * *

It wasn’t until around lunchtime that the last group from Old Town returned, ‘Marth’ leading Galle and Mari’ko into the clearing and pulling his mask off with a tired sigh. Galle and Mariko had bee-lined right for Van, the surly Plegian boy giving his Ylissean counterpart a full debriefing as Mari’ko watched on as silent as ever. Severa, Owain and Anna had returned not long before, followed closely by Kowrowa and Ita, all of whom were now lounging around the campfire waiting for night to fall again. Panne, too, had returned, bringing fresh game she had caught to supplement their travelling rations. Something about a Taguel carrying a copse of dead rabbits in her mouth had rubbed Robin the wrong way, but he’d chosen to remain silent on the matter.

“Hey guys,” Anna greeted cheerfully, before pressing a finger to her lips and motioning over to the cart. “Keep it down, our new recruit is resting.”

Lucina nodded as she placed her mask in her pouch, reaching behind her head and undoing the complex braids that held her long hair in place as she crossed the camp to where Robin was sitting, stirring a pot by the fire.

“This does not bode well,” she said with a tired smile. “It is never a good sign when you are entrusted with the cooking, my love.”

“Har. Har,” Robin said sarcastically, dropping the spoon to give his wife a quick kiss. “I’m just watching it while mister Grouchy-Priesty-Pants gives the new girl a check-up.”

“I hoped she would reach you safely,” Lucina said, relief evident in her posture as she sunk to sit at her husband’s side. “How is she?”

“Alive,” Brady said gruffly, appearing behind the couple and snatching his ladle back from Robin. “Barely. She’s restin’ now. Gimmie that before ya hurt yerself.”

“What’s ‘alive’ mean?” Robin asked as he and Lucina shifted to let Brady sit.

The priest heaved a sigh as he began slowly stirring the stew that would be lunch and dinner.

“I seen it before a bunch recently,” he explained. “It’s a sign’a the post-war times. Poor kid’s been through hell. I don’t even wanna think about what she’s been through. Wounded bad in the past. Lots’a scars. Couple’a broken bones that didn’t set right. Serious long-term malnourishment. You wouldn’t tell just by lookin’ at her, but she says she’s sixteen, almost seventeen. And those’re just the physical injuries. I can treat those, but… She’s been livin’ on the edge too long.”

“Naga,” Robin breathed. “I thought she was only twelve at the most, if not younger.”

Lucina looked at the ground between her feet, frowning. Of course defeating the Dark Dragon didn’t undo all the injustice and evil in the world, but it had been nice to think so. There was still poverty and suffering in every nation, not just Ylisse. Without the threat of war looming over them the world had slowly begun to get better, but for people like Arya it mustn’t seem to be happening very fast.

“Well, for all that she’s got a good head on her shoulders,” Robin declared. “I extended an invitation for her to join us as my apprentice after we finish up in Themis.”

That statement got Galle and Mari’ko’s attention across the camp, both tacticians glancing up at their former teacher with renewed curiosity.

“Sweet,” Gaius said with a shrug, Panne barely even registering the new addition and giving a grunt.

“She was a coward,” Ita growled, chewing on one of the rabbit leg bones that Brady had discarded. “She ran when she should have fought. And you reward such behavior?”

“Silence, Ita,” Kowrowa shushed. “The alpha has made his decision to welcome her into the pack. We will protect her.”

Ita rolled her eyes at her partner’s tone and went back to ignoring the humans and gnawing on her bone.

“I think it’s a great idea!” Fae said excitedly. “I was hoping we’d make new friends!”

“It has better than leaving her on the streets,” Severa shrugged. “I don’t know. We had it pretty bad in the future, but I guess we don’t really know much about how people have it rough here yet.”

Owain nodded sagely, amazingly remaining silent as he sharpened his sword.

“Pretty rough in some circles,” Van supplied. “Depends on where you’re from. Orphans in particular have it pretty bad. Isaac got lucky when the Knights picked him up because of who his mom was. Most don’t. It’s not a great life, and it’s only gotten worse since the wars with Plegia and Valm.”

A momentary silence descended, each Shepherd lost in their thoughts, before Brady spoke up.

“Are we even gonna tell Ma we’re here?” the priest sighed, running a hand through his short blonde hair.

Brady’s mother, Maribelle, was the noble-born daughter of the previous Duke of Themis, and one of the most influential people in the City State, second only to the current duke, her cousin Commander Roark. The fact that old friends of such social standing as Robin and Lucina were passing through without presenting themselves to her was considered exceedingly rude, and Robin could tell that Brady was worried about hurting his mother’s feelings, but Robin couldn’t afford the delay. Maribelle would understand and forgive them. He hoped.

“I’d really rather not tell your mother we’re in town until after we leave,” Robin said with a shudder. “You know she’ll rope us both back into etiquette lessons again.”

Brady’s face actually paled as his eyes widened, nodding profusely as the others that were in on the joke of Maribelle’s prim and proper behavior laughed along.

“Besides,” Robin chuckled. “I don’t intend to stick around Themis much longer anyway. As soon as we find out what they’ve been up to, we can move on to our next target. Hopefully as early as tomorrow.”

“Is that going to be enough time?” Lucina asked, placing a hand on Robin’s arm.

The tactician sat up straight, closing his eyes and holding his hands out. A few ropes of dark mana danced between his fingers, snapping at one of the digits and drawing a few drops of blood before the spell calmed and became a slight glow about his hands.

“They’re still at least three days away,” Robin reported, dispelling the mana and opening his eyes. “If we’re in and out tonight we can be across the border and in Plegia before they even know we were here.”

“That means we’re going to be playing distraction again tonight, doesn’t it?” Galle asked in a defeated tone.

“Yes, but in Themis itself this time,” Robin said excitedly. “There’ll be much nicer stuff for you guys to break, and actual city guards to evade. Consider it a test of the skills I taught you to not get caught.”

* * *

Galle leaned with his back against Anna’s caravan, waiting while she and Mari organized the distraction teams' equipment for that evening’s raid. He watched intently as Robin outlined his plan as simply as he could for Arya, who had tentatively agreed to help them. She was still on the fence about becoming Robin’s apprentice, but in Galle’s experience no-one could say no to the charismatic man for long.

“Kinda brings you back, huh?” Van asked, coming to stand with Galle. “Makes you think about when he picked us up.”

Galle grunted non-committedly, his mind flashing to a time under the blazing sun when he had been close to death from thirst and mana exhaustion, a kind, if not strange, man leaning over him and giving up the last of his water with a smile on his face as Galle’s searching came to an end…

“What are the groups for tonight?” the Plegian boy asked, shaking the memory out of his head.

He had made peace with the ghosts of his past years ago. He didn’t need the distractions on the cusp of a mission.

“You, me, and the Princess in there,” Van said, thumbing towards the wagon and using Mari’s nickname from back at the School.

Galle scoffed a little at the nostalgic nickname; Rance and Isaac had started calling her that behind her back because of her proper Chon’sinian attitude and bearing soon after their first meeting, and the nickname had stuck. Not that Galle had ever used it, or that she appreciated it much…

“Robin, Gaius, Arya and Ita are the main infiltration team,” Van went on, oblivious to Galle’s wandering thoughts. “Panne, Brady and Kowrowa are being held in reserve in case one of the teams is disabled or apprehended and need rescuing, and everyone else is in pairs for the distraction teams.”

Galle nodded absently, already running numbers in his head. He disagreed with his old teacher bringing the girl, as did a few of the others, but in the end it was Robin’s call to make; it wasn’t that Galle didn’t trust her, but that she was still damaged. He had seen all the signs before, and she really wasn’t field-ready in the least. He honestly doubted if she ever would be, given how nervous and jittery she was. At least it wouldn’t take long for the wolf and Taguel to reach any point in the city if they were stationed at the-

“So how long have we known each other now?” Van asked, interrupting Galle’s thoughts.

“What?” the Plegian boy snapped.

“You and me,” Van shrugged. “We weren’t in the same class, but we graduated together. And now we’re working together, but I still don’t know much about you.”

“And?” Galle asked after a moment of silence.

“I like to know the guys that have my back,” Van said with a sheepish grin. “You don’t talk much, so there’s not a lot of chances to ask.”

“If I didn’t know any better I’d swear you were coming on to me,” Galle deadpanned, earning a snort from within the wagon.

Anna’s head popped out from inside the canvas shell of the wagon horizontally, her long red hair falling down at a right angle to her head.

“If this goes any further I might need to sell tickets,” the merchant giggled as Mari dropped out of the wagon, holding three bundles of supplies.

“Good timing,” Galle muttered under his breath, accepting the small bag of rations and other items he might need that evening.

Mari simply gave him a neutral look and a quick nod before she was off and giving Van his own bag. Galle noticed with a sinking feeling that there were vullenaries and even an elixir in the bottom of the bag; it wasn’t a scout loud-out, it was a full-blown soldier’s kit.

“Hey-hey, cool! Elixers!” Van said happily, holding his own bag up.

Galle rolled his eyes as Anna giggled above him.

“Do try not to need them,” the merchant cooed. “They’re expensive, after all.”

* * *

That evening Lucina watched from her perch in the shadows of the steeple of one of Naga’s churches as a squad of city guard rushed by on the street beneath her, nodding once and placing the blue mask back into place over her eyes. This mission, distracting the guards, would involve hurting good people. Honest people trying to make a living and protect their families. She couldn’t do that as Lucina, but as Marth she could do what was necessary. The entire reason that Robin had gone to find her old mask in the ruins of their home had been because of that thinking; he knew that Lucina was a proud woman just as dedicated to her homeland and its people as her father was, but that they would have to do less than scrupulous things to bring the Rommel clan to justice. No one would recognize Lucina as long as she hid her brand, but the mask was almost a comforting presence as she walked down the stairs to the church floor.

“The children have made their move,” she said, dropping her voice and assuming her Marth persona fully. “We need to act now.”

Anna grinned up at the disguised woman as she turned from the small window and descended into the empty church, the merchant resting on one of the pews in the front row. The priest, apparently an old acquaintance of Anna’s aunt, had offered them sanctuary for as long as they needed it before retiring to the back rooms, leaving the two women to their work.

“So what’s the plan?” Anna asked, bouncing to her feet. “Are we going to go to the guard garrison and start randomly beating guys up?”

Lucina stopped, looking over her shoulder at Anna as her mouth opened a little. Her slack face became a grin and she set off with renewed vigor.

“That wasn’t my first thought, but it’s a much better idea than I had,” she admitted.

Anna blinked a few times before sighing and hurrying to catch up with the other woman.

“Me and my big mouth,” the redhead muttered, shaking her head. “And Robin married this woman? Sheesh… I feel sorry for him sometimes…”

* * *

Galle sighed a little as he walked through the bustling streets of the evening markets in Themis, his hood drawn low and shoulders hunched as he tried to make himself as conspicuously inconspicuous as possible to the guards looking for people trying to be inconspicuous. Beside him Mari was doing the same, her own hood pulled low over her face as they walked together through the crowd.

Galle sighed again, rotating his neck a little as he stepped into an alleyway. Mari moved with him, shooting him a questioning glance as he tugged his hood back.

“This isn’t working,” he growled. “We need to… I don’t know, blow something up.”

They had been wandering around all evening, to no avail. Galle had even ‘tripped’ a few times and stumbled into the guards wandering around, and been completely ignored. Well, he’d been cuffed upside the head and shoved away, but otherwise ignored.

“No explosions,” Mari deadpanned, repeating the same instruction that Robin had given them.

“But if we just made one little-”

“No. Explosions,” she insisted, pulling her own hood back and frowning at him.

Galle rolled his eyes as the third member of their party stepped into the alleyway, pulling his own hood back.

“Aren’t we supposed to be trying to act suspicious?” Van asked, tugging his favorite yellow scarf down from where it covered the bottom half of his face.

“Mari won’t let me make any explosions,” Galle said matter-of-factly.

“Well, that would get us noticed…” Van muttered jokingly as if he were considering the suggestion, the grin on his face giving his true position away though.

“No explosions,” Mari repeated, rolling her eyes. “What is with you boys and explosions?”

“I think that’s the most I’ve heard her talk all week,” Van muttered to Galle as Mari turned to survey the crowd.

The Plegian tactician grunted in agreement, both young men earning a glare from Mari’ko for their joking at her expense. Galle sighed and tugged his hood back into place. Just as he was about to suggest they go back into the crowd and try to attract some attention again he was stopped by a meaty hand on his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” the man wearing thick white Themisian Guard Plates said with a frown, the four other men behind him crossing their arms threateningly. “We’d like to have a word with you three.”

“Well,” Van shrugged, pulling his own hood back into place and backing away. “That was easy.”

“Scatter!” Mari shouted, and Galle tugged his shoulder away from the man and darted into the crowded street.

* * *

Owain sighed, clenching and unclenching his fist around his swords sheathe. He looked around anxiously, watching as people went by, going about their daily lives with no clue to the cancer hiding within their midst. Severa huffed at his shoulder, crossing her arms and sinking to a hip as they watched over the Rommel Merchant Clan’s base of operations; the Rommel Villa in the Merchant Quarter of Themis. Even at this late hour there were workers in abundance, moving to and fro going about their duties and offering the perfect audience for what Owain had in mind.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Severa muttered, pinching between her eyes in frustration. “And it’s stupid. And moronic. And let’s just get it over with so I can get a good night’s sleep again.”

“Heh, you always could read me like a book, my fated companion,” Owain said, striking his favorite pose with his hand fluttering before his face. “And fortunately, Sir Gaius isn’t going to stop us this time.”

“I really wish he would,” Severa sighed, leaning around Owain to get another look at their opposition.

Before the red-haired girl could make any other comments Owain pulled her back into the shadows of the alleyway, her heart leaping into her throat for a brief moment before the fear of being spotted was replaced by a different type of excitement when Owain pulled her close to him, bringing his lips to hers for a brief moment before stepping around her.

“For luck,” was all he said, winking and stepping out onto the torch-lit street, leaving a very flustered Severa standing with her mouth gaping.

“Gentlemen!” Owain announced in a loud, displeased voice. “I wish to talk to your manager about returning something I bought from you! This sword, right here! Come, take a closer look!”

Severa blinked a few more times before sighing, a fleeting smile rising to her lips as she jogged to catch up with Owain.

* * *

Robin let out a small sigh as he dropped into the Themisian storm water drain behind Gaius, the small magical flame dancing above the tactician’s palm sending flickering shadows dancing out in all directions as the others followed him.

“I’m getting to old for this crap,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose at the stink of fetid water.

“At least it hasn’t been raining,” Gaius commented offhandedly.

The thief shielded his eyes from Robin’s spell as he scouted further up the tunnel, eventually disappearing into the darkness. Behind them a heavy iron grate stood between the Shepherds and freedom; past the gate there was a sharp drop that led to the outskirts of the city. That would be their out if things went poorly. The grate was old and heavily rusted, clearly overlooked by maintenance people in the confusion of rebuilding the city. All it would take to displace the grate would be one swift kick.

Ita dropped into the drain last, hauling the heavy iron cover back into place before she descended.

“What an amazing new smell you manspawn have created,” she growled, wrinkling her nose in discomfort.

Arya shrunk away from the shape-shifter, drifting a little closer to Robin as he sighed.

“Yes, we know,” he groaned. “You have enhanced senses. Congratulations. I never heard Panne complain about hers, you know.”

“The Coney is used to life among the manspawn,” Ita spat petulantly, crossing her arms and taking a few steps after Gaius.

Robin let out another sigh before looking down to his newest protégé. The girl looked nervous, but she had a determined set to her features that he had only seen on experienced soldiers before. His heart broke at the thought of what the poor child had been through, but hopefully he could begin to set things right for her. He just had to trust that Maribelle, Roark, Chrom and all the others could do the same for the others like Arya.

“Nervous?” he asked to break the silence.

Arya jumped a little, looking up at him in surprise before shaking her head.

“No, sir,” she said hesitantly.

Ita scoffed, her tail swishing irritably.

“Really?” Robin chuckled. “’Cause I sure am.”

“You?” Arya asked, confusion evident in her features even in the low light.

“That is confidence inspiring,” Ita grumbled sarcastically.

“Sit,” Robin said over his shoulder with a grin. “Stay. Be quiet like a good girl and I’ll give you a treat when we get back to camp.”

“I will kill you,” Ita growled, wandering further into the darkness. “And then I will piss on your grave.”

Robin snorted, trying to laugh quietly. His failed attempts to hold his laughter echoed around them for a time before leaving him and Arya standing in silence again. The plan was to wait until Lucina and the others made their distraction.

After a few more moments of silence Arya fidgeted, looking up at Robin again.

“Are you… really nervous?” she asked shyly. “Even after… everything you’ve done?”

Robin cast a glance down at the girl, smiling kindly.

“After everything I’ve seen I think it’s actually worse,” he admitted. “But you always get nervous before a mission of any kind. The day you don’t is the day you get lazy. And the day you get lazy is the day you die.”

Arya nodded, looking down and huddling up under her cloak.

“I’m nervous,” she admitted after a moment of indecision. “No… I’m terrified. I don’t… want to go back. I don’t want them to hurt me again…”

“They won’t,” Robin assured her. “Ita has specific orders to protect you. Not like she needs a reason to ignore me… But I won’t make you do this if you’re not up to it. You already showed us the way in. If you want to head back to the camp and-”

“No!” Arya said desperately, her cry echoing around the empty drain.

Her eyes widened after accidentally shouting and she clamped her hands over her mouth, looking up at Robin in horror. The tactician’s shoulders shook as he desperately tried not to burst into laugher, holding his own mouth as tears rose to his eyes and his face turned red.

“Geez, kid,” he chuckled once the laughing fit had passed. “You’re gonna kill me with laughter, you know that?”

“S-sorry,” Arya said quietly. “But… I need to do this. I need to face them. To… prove that they didn’t break me.”

Robin nodded, placing a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“We’re going to punish them,” he promised. “For all the evil they’ve done. For all the people they’ve hurt. You keep that fact close to your heart, alright? You get scared, think that you’re doing this to stop them from hurting anyone else like they did you, and that’ll keep you going.”

Arya nodded and Robin gave her shoulder a squeeze before separating from the girl.

“Ah, I always hated waiting for an op to begin,” he sighed, sinking down to sit against the rough stone wall. “I really am getting to old for this.”

“We’re not even thirty yet,” Gaius muttered, reappearing into the circle of light. “Stop talking like that. You’re starting to make me feel old, too. C’mon, show’s already started and I found us a way in.”

“But I just got comfy…” Robin grumbled, forcing himself back to his feet.

* * *

Robin stuck his head up through a sluice grate in the Rommel complex’s stables, barely getting a glance in before Gaius yanked him back down with a dirty look.

What he had seen looked like any other stable, empty and dark during the night. Gaius pulled a dark purple balaclava over his bright hair, peeking up over the edge of the grate before silently pulling himself up into the stable.

Robin huffed and crossed his arms, grinning at a frowning Ita and a nervous-looking Arya. Admittedly, he wasn’t quite taking things seriously yet. But he took a deep breath, which was difficult given the stench wafting up from the sludge around their feet, and steeled himself the way he always used to before a mission.

Gaius reappeared, indicating that they follow him up. Robin went first, offering his hand back down to assist the girls with Gaius. Arya took his hand and let him pull her up, while Ita just grunted and launched herself past a surprised Gaius to land gracefully in a crouch, her nose twitching as she tested the air for threats. With a slow nod the shape-shifter gave the all clear and Robin breathed a sigh of relief. With quick, practiced movements the four Shepherds undid the cords around their ankles, shedding the soiled skins that had been protecting their feet and boots from the waste in the drain. Gaius passed around a small pouch of black powdered charcoal which Robin and Ita began to rub small amounts of on any spots that had been splashed to hide the scent of the sewer. Arya hesitated for a moment before emulating them, rubbing the black powder onto the knees of her pants.

Gaius nodded in approval before quickly patting himself down with the powder and putting it back into his larger pouch. The thief kicked the skins back into the open grate before silently lowering the heavy steel bars back into place.

“Stick close,” Robin whispered to Arya. “If something happens Ita makes a distraction and we get back here as fast as we can. Understand?”

The girl swallowed and nodded, and Robin gave her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. The tactician spun and nodded to Gaius, who disappeared into the dark building. Robin held the others back for a moment before moving forward, his footsteps silent compared to Arya’s soft and tentative movements. Robin felt he was a little out of practice; his coat occasionally brushed his leg or he sometimes scuffed his boot on the ground, but after training with Gaius for so long he was still basically a shadow in the darkened hallways. Which was good, because Ita was making more than enough noise for the three humans by tromping along with heavy footfalls and sniffing continuously; the only saving grace was that she was bare-foot, otherwise the whole Villa would have known they were there.

In the distance Robin could hear the sound of excited voices shouting, Owain no doubt having the time of his life distracting the Rommel Guards. Robin hesitated for a moment, wondering if he had just heard someone shouting about their sword hand in the distance or if it had been his imagination.

* * *

Hin’rath fumed as he stomped through the villa towards the receiving dock, his usually gentle face pulled back in a brutal scowl. He looked composed outwardly, but inwardly he was raging, and the stiffness of his movements conveyed that.

Someone was attacking the Villa. Of course it had to happen while the Mistress was away on business and he was in charge. So far this week had been nothing but screw-ups under his authority, and he was officially at the end of his patience.

First an important deal with the Anna merchants had fallen through. Then the girl had escaped them with knowledge of his Mistress’ dealings, not to mention insider knowledge of the entire villa itself. Now this.

“Ah, this week just keeps goin’ from bad to worse, don’t it?” Maurice asked, echoing the steward’s thoughts as he came alongside the smaller man.

Hin’rath glanced across to the old soldier, the larger man already in his light armor and gripping his sword confidently. Something that Hin’rath had noticed recently, though, was that the veteran had started to have a hitch in his step; a slight limp on his right leg.

“There’s reports coming in all over town,” Maurice grunted as they rounded a corner. “There’s some fracas in the markets tyin’ up the City Guard, so we’re on our own here.”

“I have had my fill of failure. Kill whoever it is that is attacking us,” Hin’rath growled, flicking his wrists.

Two small daggers, kunai throwing knives from his homeland, slipped into his waiting hands. He had countless more hidden up his sleeves and in his robes, not to mention the multitude of other blades strapped to his body. It wasn’t often that he indulged in battle himself, but he needed the stress-relief after this week.

In that, he thought as he and Maurice entered the receiving dock, this attacker had good timing.

A number of House Rommel’s other soldiers were already on the scene, the frightened workers close to stampeding as they struggled to escape from the threat of imminent violence. Maurice immediately started shouting above the crowd, calling for order and calm while Hin’rath pushed through to where the other soldiers were.

He passed the crowd, his gaze falling on a blonde man in Feroxi clothes and a red-haired woman that bore an uncanny resemblance to Ylisse’s Wing Commander. Both had weapons drawn, but it was the blonde man swinging his sword around wildly that was the main concern at present.

“I said this blade is cursed!” the blonde man roared, swinging the sword again.

Adrik cursed among the soldiers, stepping backwards into Hin’rath rather than get too close to the blade.

“Look!” the blonde man cried. “My sword hand hungers! I cannot control it!”

“Idiots!” Hin’rath roared.

The line of soldiers grew deathly still, Adrik jumping forward as he realized who he had stepped on. The blonde man’s face broke into a momentary grin as he spotted Hin’rath before it dropped back into a frown.

_He’s playing us_ , Hin’rath realized with a spike of anger.

“Are you the master of this house of liars!?” the blonde man asked. “How dare you sell me a cursed blade!? Why-”

Whatever else the madman was going to say was cut off as he was forced back a step, bringing his ‘cursed’ weapon up to deflect the kunai that Hin’rath had thrown at his face. Clearly the man was well-trained; a mercenary, then, sent to disrupt the Rommel’s business by a rival Merchant House.

The blonde man’s serious face split into a mad grin now, all pretense gone as Hin’rath stepped into the open space before the soldiers.

“Are you worth my blade, sir?” the blonde man asked.

Hin’rath glowered before turning to bark over his shoulder.

“Kill the woman. I will deal with the showman.”

* * *

Robin resisted the urge to sneeze as he and Arya followed Gaius down another abandoned hallway. The Villa was a lot bigger than it had looked from the outside, and apparently the Head Merchant’s office was on the second floor of the squat building. They had just climbed the stairs, but Robin didn’t want to make the others play distraction for too long and press their luck, so his signaled for Gaius to pick up the pace.

The thief nodded, surging ahead silently, leaving Arya and to breathe a little gasp of astonishment at the older man’s ability. Gaius was like a shadow, easily one of the most dangerous people that Robin knew when he wanted to be.

“Are we far?” he asked Arya.

She started, glancing up at the man before shaking her head.

“I’ve only been there once before, but it should be just around the corner,” she whispered.

Robin nodded, glancing back at Ita.

“Stay here,” he said. “Something comes up those stairs scare it off.”

The shape-shifting woman grinned, turning on her heel and standing in the middle of the hallway with her arms crossed.

“Clearly the time for subtlety is over,” Robin muttered, rolling his eyes.

“With all the noise the sword-hand is making downstairs I don’t think there was ever call for subtlety,” Gaius shrugged, reappearing at Robin’s shoulder.

The tactician and Arya both jumped, earning a chuckle from the thief.

“Found it up ahead, exactly where the kid said it was,” Gaius reported, grinning all the while.

“Ita, stay,” Robin said over his shoulder.

“I will kill you, manspawn,” the shape-shifter growled as they disappeared around the corner. “I swear it. One day I will end you.”

Robin was struck, once he stopped laughing at Ita’s reaction, at the sheer opulence of the hallway he found himself in. It was on-par with some of the palaces he had seen over the years with its plush carpets and tasteful paintings and sculptures lining the walls. Clearly this was the hallway that important visitors were brought through as a show of the Merchant House’s power in wealth. It seemed silly to Robin, but the way that Gaius was eying a few of the sculptures there had clearly been a lot of money invested here.

“Later,” Robin muttered, giving Gaius a little push when he slowed in front of a particularly beautifully-carved sculpture of Naga.

The thief huffed, giving the statue one final longing glance before moving forward with Robin and Arya. The tactician snuck a glance at the girl out of the corner of his eye as they moved down the hallway, making sure she was still okay. Clearly she was struggling; her lips were pursed tightly and she jumped a little at every small sound, her own eyes darting around everywhere.

“We’re almost done, kid,” Robin promised her. “Just a little more and-”

The trio froze, Robin halting mid-sentence as a door further up the hall opened. Without thinking he grabbed Arya, the girl giving a little squeak as Robin bundled her into the nearest room, quietly closing the door behind them. He hadn’t seen where Gaius went, but assumed that the thief would simply blend into the shadows like he usually did.

Arya fidgeted in his grip, whimpering a little beneath Robin’s hand clamped over her mouth. The sound of rushing footsteps receded and Robin let out a breath as he released Arya.

“Sorry, kid,” he apologized hastily as she re-arranged her cloak. “I had to make sure we were safe.”

She nodded once, not meeting his gaze as they stepped back into the hallway the same time Gaius dropped from the ceiling.

“Did you just…” Robin half-asked before shaking his head. “Forget it. Nothing you do any more surprises me. Let’s finish this and-”

There was a blood-curling scream from back up the hall as the Rommel worker found Ita and Robin cursed, running a hand down his face.

“I can’t believe I forgot Ita was there,” he muttered, turning to Gaius and Arya.

The thief simply arched a brow as the girl began to panic, her breathing speeding up as she looked back and forth between the two older men.

“Forget subtlety,” Robin ordered, not even bothering to whisper any more. “Get what we need. Ita! Make some noise!”

The tactician’s shout was met with a loud animalistic howl that made Arya shudder even more. When they looked back Gaius was already gone, no doubt making sure there were no more surprises up ahead.

“Where’s the office?” Robin asked Arya.

She glanced up at him, her eyes momentarily clouding in confusion as she mumbled something incoherent.

“They… they’ll f-find us…” she mumbled. “Hurt… not again… no… no…”

“Kid, focus,” he said, gripping her shoulders. “You don’t wanna die here. I don’t want you to die here. We are both far, far too pretty to die. Now where’s the office?”

Arya blinked up at him, the light coming back to her eyes as she tried to process the tactician’s silly joke.

“Up… up ahead…” Arya said, swallowing. “Around the next corner up… the end. Can’t miss it.”

Robin nodded, grabbing her wrist and pulling her along after him. He’d be damned if he was going to leave her in a place like this, but also cursed himself. Two mistakes now; he should have known she wouldn’t be able to take this, and he should have known Ita wouldn’t hide. Robin was starting to think he really was getting too old.

Gaius reappeared then, making Arya jump.

“Rest of the floor’s clear,” he reported.

“Good,” Robin nodded. “Now let’s get what we came for.”

“What are we looking for?” Gaius asked as they rushed down the last stretch of hallway to the gilded doors at the end.

“Shipping manifests,” Robin said, throwing the doors open. “Purchase receipts. Credit logs. Anything that’ll give us an idea of the Rommel’s movements or future plans. A journal, look for a journal. Gah! Is my office this messy?”

They rushed into the office, Robin going for the desk while Gaius moved to the cabinets on one side of the room.

“So… boring stuff,” Gaius shrugged. “Gotcha. Can I at least grab that statue on the way out?”

“Gaius, focus,” Robin sighed, flipping through papers.

Arya stood uncertainly in the middle of the room for a moment before approaching Robin at the desk. He was just about to tell her to watch the door when something caught his eye.

“Hey Arya,” he asked excitedly. “Is there a reason that the Rommels would be procuring large amounts of land in Regna Ferox?”

She shook her head shakily, glancing across the desk at the sheaf of papers Robin was holding.

“I… I don’t know,” she answered.

“Paydirt?” Gaius asked, looking up from his own work.

The thief had a bundle of papers under one arm, roughly going through the remaining cabinets. To Arya’s astonishment he had already covered nearly two thirds of the cabinets in the minutes Robin had been rifling through the desk.

“Maybe. You find anything useful?” Robin asked in response, scratching at his head.

“Maybe,” Gaius shrugged, freezing as he looked up. “Uh… Bubbles, your head’s on fire.”

Robin glanced up, quirking a brow and opening his mouth to speak before Arya began panicking.

“He’s right!” she shouted, leaping back.

Robin reached up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from the side of his head where…

The tactician’s eyes widened as he shoved the papers into Arya’s hands. With quick movements he drew his rapier a little from its sheathe and touched his thumb to its blade to draw blood before muttering a quick incantation and holding his hands apart. He closed his eyes for a moment, a dark purple glow appearing between his hands before winking out when his eyes snapped back open.

“Abort mission,” he said urgently. “We need to be gone, now.”

“Securing an exit,” Gaius said without hesitation, shoving his own stack of papers into Arya’s hands and breezing out of the room.

Robin stepped out from around the desk, moving past Arya and drawing something from his coat’s pocket. Arya shrunk back a little as Robin tied his hair back from his face, revealing a particularly nasty scar above his eye.

“What’s happening?” she asked, hurrying to keep up with him.

“The Villa’s owner is back,” Robin said in a dark tone of voice. “And I really don’t want to have to fight with that psychopath any time soon. So we’re leaving.”

As soon as Robin stepped into the hallway he turned and made for the closest window, pulling a small cylindrical signaling device that Miriel had developed during the war against Plegia out of his coat.

* * *

Owain grimaced, deflecting yet another throwing knife as he danced around the robed man’s attacks, again failing to close with him. He had stopped grinning some time ago as he and Severa had been forced back and out of the receiving dock, back onto the street outside. They were causing a commotion, though, and it looked like the entire Rommel Villa had turned out to watch. Exactly according to plan.

Behind him Severa grunted, fending off the other Rommel soldiers on her own. The older men were clearly all war veterans, but she was using the younger ones as shields, positioning the inexperienced men in the path of their allies and dancing through the press of enemies with a grace and skill that made Owain’s heart ache in admiration of her beauty.

The blonde man cursed his distraction as another throwing knife flew by his nose, barely managing to throw himself back in time.

“You are indeed a worthy opponent!” Owain announced, saluting the robed man.

“Stop talking and fight already!” Severa shouted exasperatedly, parrying a blow from a man nearly twice her size.

Owain chuckled, grinning at the robed man standing silently watching him. The man, clearly from Chon’sin judging from his appearance and fighting style, was good. But he was no Owain Dark. He had survived a forsaken hell of a future to travel back in time and save this world, and he would not be undone by a man wearing clerk’s robes.

“Dammit, she’s just one woman!” the robed man shouted at the soldiers. “Can’t you idiots do anything right?”

The soldiers bristled, advancing on Severa again. However Owain used the momentary distraction of the man shouting to rush him, his blade flashing heroically in the darkness directly towards-

Stumbling, Owain struck at air as a familiar searing pain erupted in his ribs.

“You’re good,” the robed man admitted as they separated. “Most men wouldn’t have been able to evade at the last second. I’m curious, tell me who trained you?”

“My father,” Owain grunted, pulling the small knife out of his ribs and dropping it to the street.

There was a hushed whisper that rippled through the crowd at the sight of first blood being drawn, and Severa cast him a look equal parts worry and annoyance as she continued to fend off the blows from the soldiers.

“I believe it’s time to end this farce,” the robed man said impassively, flicking his wrists and bringing two more daggers to his hands.

Owain looked up, his face growing serious once more as he spotted the signal Robin had put up. Or more specifically, the location of the signal. A large jet of green sparks was shooting up from the window of one of the Villa’s top floors, easily spotted throughout the entire city. Robin’s team was only supposed to signal from the Villa if things went badly, meaning of course…

Right on cue the crowd of workers and soldiers in the receiving dock began to scream and panic behind the robed man as Ita crashed out of the main building and howled, tearing into anything within reach with reckless abandon. The robed man turned, his face going slack as he witnessed a horse-sized wolf appearing out of seemingly nowhere, as did the rest of the soldiers, giving Owain and Severa their chance to escape.

The duo silently pulled back, disappearing into the alleyway they had come out of. Once they had gotten a few blocks away Owain stopped, leaning against the wall of the closest building and clamping a hand to his ribs. He hadn’t noticed before during the fighting, but the wound was really deep and bleeding profusely. Severa spotted this, too, and sighed, pulling a small container full of healing salve out of her pouch and slathering Owain’s wound with it before shoving an elixir into his hands. Judging from the searing agony the salve caused in Owain’s flank, it was Severa’s mother’s recipe.

“Can you keep walking?” Severa asked as Owain upended the elixir into his mouth.

He nodded, tossing the empty bottle aside and wiping his mouth clean on the back of his hand.

“Why have you stopped, manspawn?” Ita asked, appearing behind them. “We are far from safe here.”

“What happened in there?” Severa asked as they started to jog in the direction of the city wall.

The shape-shifter shrugged, her tail swishing irritably beneath her cloak now that she was back in her human form.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I was told to make noise. I made noise. What you manspawn do doesn’t concern me.”

Owain let out a weak chuckle, clutching his side as he ran.

“Leave it to Robin to hog all the fun on us,” he muttered.

Severa just rolled her eyes and urged them to run faster. The sooner they were out of the city and Brady got a look at Owain the better.

* * *

“Okay, calling this place a Villa is a little much,” Robin complained. “I mean really; this is a small palace!”

He, Arya and Gaius were running full-pelt along one of the hallways that would bring them back to the stables, the girl panting as she tried to keep pace with the two veterans. Judging from the sound outside Ita’s distraction was in full swing, meaning that they still had a window to get out before things went truly pear shaped.

What bothered Robin was how Maris was returning so fast… It didn’t make sense. The warning curse he had put on the lock of hair that had burned up was fool-proof, and the scrying hex he’d placed on the Rommel back in Regna Ferox under the guise of torturing him had made following the man’s movements a breeze, but…

As they came into the stables Robin’s coat was blown back and they were all buffeted by a strong blast of wind, forcing him to shield his eyes. When he looked up, though, everything became clear.

A large, fully-grown gryphon had landed in the middle of the stable with a man wearing full Themisian heavy armor atop it. Only instead of the usual crisp white coloring, this armor was jet black.

“Gaius, get the girl into the hole,” Robin said urgently. “Arya, do what Gaius says, but don’t drop those papers or everything we did here was a waste.”

“Right,” Gaius nodded, placing himself between the gryphon rider and Arya, giving Robin one last sideways look.

“Try not to get dead,” the thief grinned.

Arya was silent, literally quaking with fear as Maris tore his helm off and threw it aside. Gaius slowly backed them around the pending confrontation towards the grate, his hand kneading the grip of the dagger on his belt.

“Tactician!” he roared, brandishing his sword at Robin. “You dare!? You dare to invade my home!?”

Robin resisted the urge to wince when he caught sight of the former knight. His beard and hair were ragged and unkempt, and the light of madness had taken over his eyes. Robin needed his full attention though, so that Gaius and Arya could escape. Deciding not to remind the other man that this was basically exactly what he and his cronies had done in Regna Ferox, Robin decided to use mockery to stall for time.

“Maris!” he said, throwing his arms wide as if greeting an old friend. “I like what you’ve done with your… gryphon. How’d you make him so big? Mine’s still the size of a dog.”

“Do not mock me!” the other man snarled, the gryphon beneath him hissing in time with his master’s ire.

“Okay, okay, sheesh,” Robin placated. “I guess you want to skip right to the part where we fight?”

“I wish to skip to the part where I kill you and feed you to Invincible!” Maris declared.

Robin glanced around the gryphon, his face breaking into a grin when he saw that he and Maris were alone in the stables.

“Okay, one that’s a stupid name for a mount,” Robin said, sinking to a hip. “And two, I’ll pass.”

With a flare of mana Robin activated the teleportation spell in the ring on his index finger, the red stone glowing bright before he disappeared, leaving a raging Maris alone in the stables.

* * *

When Robin reappeared he did so just as Gaius was kicking down the storm grate bars, directly behind the thief and Arya, still clinging desperately to the sheaf of papers. The girl, fearful tears in her eyes, leapt a little at Robin’s sudden reappearance, but Gaius barely glanced over his shoulder.

“And I didn’t even draw my sword,” Robin boasted with a grin, giving Arya an encouraging wink.

She nodded and sniffled, wiping the tears out of her eyes with one shaking hand.

“You did well today, kid,” Robin said. “Let’s get out of here. Down the pipe.”

Arya nodded again, wordlessly moving to slide down the pipe that would take them to the city outskirts. Once she was out of view Robin keeled over, dry-retching as he steadied himself with one hand on the drain’s stone wall. Gaius was at his side instantly, holding the tactician up as he heaved.

“What the hell happened up there?” Gaius asked quietly.

“It’s…” Robin managed, straightening and pulling the cord out of his hair, letting it fall back and cover his scars.

“The magic,” he managed after a few deep breaths. “The magical resonance that was permeating the gryphon. It… it was Grima.”


	8. Chapter 8

Robin let out an irritated groan as he finally splashed into the shallow basin of muck and fetid water at the end of the pipe leading out of Themis, the unpleasant sensation of the mud going over the top of and into his high boots yet another added to the list of things he’d never wanted to experience in his life.

“Clear the way!” Gaius chuckled, hopping down after him.

Robin hissed as he was splattered with more of the mud, glaring at the thief who was grinning innocently.

“What?” Gaius shrugged.

With a sigh Robin pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stifle the headache that had dawned on him since Maris had dropped on them on his big black Grima-infused gryphon. As he trudged to the edge of the shallow pool, one hand ensuring that his spellbook and rapier were still in place after the slide down the pipes, he noticed a small figure hunched over near the bank. Arya crouched, unmoving and silent with her back turned to them. Exchanging a worried glance with Gaius Robin quickened his gait, reaching her side and gently laying a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

Arya leapt to her feet, eyes wild as she clutched the sheaf of papers Robin and Gaius had given her to her chest as if they were a shield.

“Hey, hey,” Robin soothed her. “It’s us. It’s Robin and Gaius. We’re safe. Arya, it’s okay.”

He gripped the girl’s shoulders so that she couldn’t flee, and after a few seconds of half-hearted struggle and desperate moaning the light came back to Arya’s eyes, the sound of her name seeming to snap her out of it. She blinked a few times up at Robin, smiling encouragingly down at her as tears began to well in the corners of her eyes.

“You did well tonight,” he said gently.

Arya nodded, her lip quivering for a moment before she threw herself into Robin’s chest and burst into tears. The tactician let a breath out of his nose, rubbing Arya’s back until she calmed and wondering just what in the hell that the Rommels had done to her. Gaius stood watch, perched on top of the pipe and sucking on one of his ever-present sugar-pops, politely averting his eyes until Arya had quieted.

“You good now?” Robin asked as kindly as he could.

Arya sniffled and nodded, still gripping the papers for dear life.

“I-I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I kinda… lost it there.”

“It’s okay, kid,” Robin said. “I’m not going to hold it against you. You did well tonight, and that’s the truth. But now you have a decision to make.”

She looked up at Robin from underneath her fringe nervously, much the way Tharja had used to he noticed absently.

“I’m not going to hold you to anything,” he explained. “But we can’t stay in this city any longer now. So you have two choices here. Option one, I give you a bag of coins the size of your head as payment for services rendered this evening, we escort you to the border and then we go our separate ways.”

Arya nodded, hiccupping a little as she waited for Robin to continue.

“Or two,” he went on after a moment of thought, “You come with us. You train with me to be a tactician, and you never look back.”

“I… I don’t know if I can,” Arya admitted meekly, averting her eyes.

Robin nodded, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s up to you,” he said. “Honestly, I can’t make you great. I can’t make you powerful. All I can do is give you the tools to do it yourself. If you don’t have the will to become more than you ever imagined you could be, and if you don’t have the strength to be someone that bears the lives of thousands of others on her shoulders, then this life isn’t for you.”

Arya looked up at him again, eyes widening slightly.

“But,” Robin went on. “I think you do have those things. I can’t force you. All I can do is give you the choice. And tell you that I wouldn’t change this life for any other in the world.”

Arya nodded slowly, looking down and taking a deep breath.

“I want to be… more than this,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “I don’t want to be… weak anymore. I don’t want anyone else… to suffer like I have. I want to save people. I want to be a tactician.”

Robin smiled as he crossed his arms and sunk to a hip.

“Then by all means, feel free to join our merry band,” he said, his tone light. “But just know that the bag-of-coins-the-size-of-your-head boat has forever set sail.”

“Do we even have that much cash?” Gaius asked from his perch, still scanning the surroundings.

“That’s what I keep you around for,” Robin laughed. “’Aggressive Procurement Strategies’ are your expertise, right?”

“And I do so love my job,” Gaius grinned over his shoulder, brushing his coat back from his side to reveal an exquisitely carved statue of Naga.

Robin let out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head.

“Now just who do you intend to sell that to in Plegia?” the tactician asked. “Or do you plan to carry it around until we’re back in Ylisse?”

“I know a guy,” Gaius shrugged.

* * *

“Everyone still alive?” Robin called out as he stepped into the campground.

Or, he amended himself, what was left of it. The fire pit they had been cooking over the last few days had been smothered and the rocks that had circled it returned to the bushes, while the tents and wagon had all been packed away. Clearly his little group had been the last to arrive; the sewer pipe they had followed had brought them out near the opposite side of the city, so it had taken most of the morning to make it back to the camp. Arya’s ill health had made it slow going, too; they had fed the girl, but a few meals didn’t quite make up for a lifetime of hardship, and she had needed to rest regularly.

The others all glanced up as he, Gaius and Arya reappeared, Panne rushing forward to her mate. The others continued their work breaking camp, except for Lucina, Brady and the two wolf-shape-shifters. Kowrowa stood over Brady and Ita as the priest healed a nasty looking wound in the snarling woman’s arm, her ears flat to her head as she glared at everyone and everything around her. The Taguel pulled back once she got closer to Gaius, making a sour expression.

“You stink,” she said, maintaining her distance.

“Ouch,” Gaius sighed.

“We’ll have time to bathe once we hit the border,” Robin laughed. “All of us.”

Lucina stepped forward as the others burst back into renewed action loading the last of their supplies and covering their tracks. She looked down at Arya, still hugging the documents to her chest, wide-eyed and clearly feeling out of place among the veterans.

“All of us?” she asked, pointedly looking at the girl.

Robin nodded, slapping Arya lightly on the back.

“All of us,” he repeated with a paternal smile. “Galle! Front and center!”

The Plegian tactician glanced up from where he was tying the bedrolls together on the back of the cart, Mari seamlessly taking his place as he jogged over to his old teacher.

“Yes?” he asked, casting a questioning glance at Arya.

“She’s your problem now,” Robin said simply, indicating Arya with his thumb. “Or at least until we hit the border.”

“What?” they both asked in unison.

“Why me?” Galle went on, frowning as Arya looked on silently.

“Because you were my best, if also grumpiest, student,” Robin explained. “But more importantly, you’re Plegian. Birds of a feather and all that. Look, when you signed up you agreed to take my orders. I’m making it an order.”

With that Robin took Lucina’s arm and led her away, leaving Galle and Arya looking uncomfortably at each other as the rest of the group made ready to depart.

“Thanks for saving me in the city,” Arya mumbled eventually.

“Don’t make me regret it,” Galle said brusquely, turning on his heel. “Come on. You can help me and Mari get the bedrolls secured.”

Mari’ko glanced up as she heard her name, standing next to the obviously well-secured bedrolls on the back of the wagon, her face as impassive as always.

“Okay, we can pretend to secure the bedrolls while Mari makes us look bad,” Galle sighed.

“Right!” Arya said, jogging to catch up with the older Plegian’s longer gait. “Can you teach me that cool green glowy thing you did back in the city?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No,” Galle repeated before coming to a stop and turning to look back at her. “Maybe. Depends.”

“On what?”

“On what Lady Tharja says about your magical aptitude,” Galle shrugged, moving to join Mari’ko.

* * *

Maribelle stifled a yawn as she strode through the halls of the Duke’s Villa in Themis, her features set in a severe frown.

The noblewoman had long ago given up the title of Duchess for that of a simple magistrate, quickly becoming one of the most influential in the region despite her young age, one of only three High-Magistrates in all of Ylisse. The current Duke, Roark, was her second cousin and had been her Father’s right-hand man before his death; he was also a famed military leader, and had personally led Themis’ troops through every major campaign since Duke Themis’ death in Plegia.

It seemed like an eternity now since her father had died, but Maribelle still felt his loss as keenly as if it had happened yesterday. The feeling of injustice she had experienced at the way he had been murdered by the late King Gangrel had been the largest driving force behind her decision to become a magistrate, which had until then been something of a childish fantasy.

Beneath her black robes of office Maribelle had traded her old pink riding clothes for a more subdued dress of cream and white, a pink ribbon tying the outfit together beneath the robes. It had been her precious friend Lissa who had said she looked best in pink, and Maribelle had made sure to always have the colour on her ever since.

“Good morning, High-Magistrate,” one of Roark’s men greeted her as she strode into the Villa’s audience chamber.

“Good morning, cousin,” Roark called from behind a mountain of papers on his desk.

“What is so important you had to drag me down here first thing in the morning?” Maribelle asked impatiently. “I had to postpone three hearings to meet with you.”

“Nice to see you, too,” Roark sighed. “There was a number of disturbances last night. One in the markets, one at the City Guard garrison, and the last at the Rommel Estate.”

The Duke looked tired, the skin around his one good eye sallow and dark. He had grown a small goatee recently, his dark hair matching the black leather of his eyepatch surprisingly well in Maribelle’s mind. He still cut a dashing figure in his Commander’s tunic, despite having given the rank away since ‘retiring’ after Grima’s defeat five years ago.

“This hardly seems to warrant the attention of Themis’ High Magistrate,” Maribelle said. “And if the courts deem it worth my attention I will deal with it then.”

Usually she dealt with the worst crimes; murders, rapes, things that cost or ruined lives. Occasionally she still presided over smaller matters, but Roark knew damn well that she was busy.

With a mental sigh Maribelle berated herself for cursing in her head; another bad habit picked up from her time-travelling son, Brady.

“Well, I thought it was kind of funny,” Roark said, standing and glaring at her with his one good eye, “That your son has been missing from the Ylissean court for nearly six months now. About the same amount of time that Robin has been shut up in Ylisstol, recovering after the incident in the north.”

“Brady is a grown man,” Maribelle scoffed. “And what Robin does is no concern of mine anymore. We both stopped being Shepherds years ago.”

Roark sighed and sank back into his chair, leaning back and looking at the ceiling for a moment.

“I apologize for my tone,” Roark said. “But the perpetrators have all disappeared, and I have representatives from the Rommel family breathing down my neck to punish someone for the attack.”

Maribelle nodded.

“Apology accepted, dear cousin,” Maribelle said graciously. “You must join us for tea sometime soon. Kellam does so love your company, and little Brady would be thrilled.”

Roark nodded, running a hand through his thick dark hair.

“Of course,” he agreed. “It has been far too long. Perhaps this weekend?”

Maribelle nodded, smiling a little.

“Then if you will excuse me, Duke Roark,” she said with a bow, turning and striding from the room.

“Of course, High Magistrate,” Roark called after her, the grin evident in his tone.

A momentary smile rose to Maribelle’s face before it was quashed beneath the weight of her irritation. Someone would be getting a very angry letter, followed by some very intense etiquette reminder-lessons once she got her hands on them.

“I swear that man is such a bad influence on my Brady,” she muttered to herself as she strode back towards her waiting carriage.

* * *

Idallia swallowed as she stepped from the carriage into her Villa’s stables, her wide eyes surveying the wreckage around her as the coachmen went about looking for somewhere to secure the horses. The stables were a separate building to the main Villa, more a shack built off one of the Villa’s walls above the storm water drain for ease of cleaning than anything else. What was left of it lay piled to one side, the remnants of posts still sticking up from the ground, splintered wood still lying about the area in forlorn piles.

“Watch your step, mistress,” Hin’rath said in his usual monotone, appearing at her shoulder. “We have yet to begin the reconstruction, so there is still debris.”

Idallia nodded mutely, turning to look up at her assistant and steward and letting out a horrified gasp. Half of his face was a purple mask of swollen bruises, his right eye a bloodshot red orb in a swollen slit of his socket. He gave a little grimace as he corrected his posture before bowing to her as if nothing were amiss.

“Hin’rath, what happened to you!?” she asked aghast.

The man winced again, keeping his head lowered.

“There was an incident while you were gone,” he reported. “Documents were stolen, mistress. We may have been compromised.”

“And these… thieves did this to my stables and your face?” Idallia asked, shock beginning to give way to anger.

Maris had gone ahead atop his gryphon because ‘something was bothering him’. He should have been back days ago, early enough to prevent-

“Your brother…” Hin’rath began, cutting off Idallia’s thoughts but trailing off without saying anything further.

Idallia froze. She had never heard that waver in Hin’rath’s voice before.

“What has Maris done?” she asked, her anger giving way to white-hot fury.

* * *

She found her brother reclining in her office, his booted feet up on her polished desk as he sipped from one of her favorite crystal glasses, no doubt full of her most expensive brandy.

“Ah, sister,” he said, glancing up. “What took you so long? I’ve been here cleaning up the… you look… upset.”

“You’re damn right I am!” Idallia roared, slamming her hands down on her desk so hard they went numb. “You… you… what the hell were you thinking!?”

“Can you be a little more specific?” Maris asked, arching a brow.

“Hin’rath,” Idallia ground out through gritted teeth.

“Ah, the clerk,” Maris said dismissively. “He messed up everything he did while we were gone. He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.”

“We. Are. Merchants!” Idallia screamed, her voice becoming shrill. “You’re not a soldier anymore and you’re not fighting a war! We don’t kill people willy-nilly because we feel like it! Hin’rath is important! That mage at Alvin’s orchard was important! Everyone we employ serves a purpose and if you can’t control yourself I will take actions to stop you! Right now you are the one messing up our operation, not them!”

The silence that followed Idallia’s rant was deafening. Maris sat, stunned as his sister’s shoulders rose and fell, the older Rommel panting from the exertion of her threat. Idallia’s hair hung over her face as she looked down, still quivering with rage.

“You’ve never spoken to me like that before,” Maris said, still shocked.

“And get your damn boots off my desk,” Idallia added, glaring up at him through her fringe.

Maris nodded meekly, the big man dropping his feet heavily to the floor as his sister composed herself.

“I’m… I’m sorry, sister,” he said quietly. “I’ve… ever since Nauta…”

Maris lowered his head, clasping his hands in his lap and closing in on himself in what Idallia knew was shame.

“I know,” she sighed, moving to her brother’s side.

Gently she took her brother’s head and held him in a close hug, stroking his hair.

“It’s that damn tactician’s fault!” Maris whimpered. “He… he did this to me!”

Idallia nodded, knowing without looking that Maris was indicating to his brand, forever scarred on his face.

“I know,” Idallia said soothingly, hushing him. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

“Thank you, sister,” Maris sniffled, gripping Idallia’s hand where it rested on his shoulder. “If I didn’t have you on my side I… I don’t know what I’d do.”

Idallia nodded silently, holding her damaged brother and waiting for him to calm himself. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Hin’rath retreat from the open doorway, the image of her clerk palming one of his throwing knives burning itself into her memory as she realized that everyone saw her brother as a dangerous monster.

And she wasn’t entirely sure they were wrong any more.

* * *

Arya yawned as she sat up, blinking her bleary eyes clear and looking around at familiar yet unfamiliar surroundings. She was back home, in Plegia. The desert was a testament to that. But she wasn’t sure where exactly this oasis was. On either side of her Lucina and Severa slept, Mari’ko not far away while Anna and Fae’s bedrolls were empty. A few meters away, on the other side of the merchant’s wagon and the cooking fire, the boys were still sleeping, while Kowrowa and Ita were curled up in their wolf-forms near the fire.

Arya found it interesting, she reflected as she pulled her knees up to her chin and sat watching Anna prepare breakfast, that she had fallen into a routine with these people in such a short span of time. She trained and studied with Robin and Lucina most of the day, joked with Fae at every opportunity, talked with Gaius and Anna about their old stories, ate with everyone, slept with everyone, all the while with Galle watching over her like a surly-faced and grumpy gargoyle… In her short life she had never been happier. She was wary of letting her guard down too much and trusting the ‘Shepherds’, but something told her they were the real deal. That it was really Robin, and the greatest Plegian hero in history was really training her to be a tactician, like him.

The thought choked her up a little. Shaking her head clear Arya rose to her feet, stretching and deciding to clear her head with a walk.

She could do without the shape-shifters and Ylisseans, though. Arya didn’t quite know what to make of the three shape-shifters, and after the abuse she’d suffered in Themis she was still automatically nervous around the Ylisseans. She knew that they wouldn’t harm her, but there was a small part of her brain she couldn’t silence, one that screamed distrust.

Arya shuffled out of her bedroll, pulling her new boots on and stretching again. The boots had been the first of many things she had been provided, all of it ‘going on Robin’s tab’ according to Anna. She decided that it was warm enough to forgo her cloak and headed down to the oasis’ waterfront in her sleeveless tunic and pants. As soon as she came into view of the water she spotted her teacher kneeling down next to the water, clearly freshly risen himself if the unruly mass of tangled hair atop his head was any indication. Robin glanced up as he heard her approaching, giving the girl a tired grin.

“Mornin’ kid,” he mumbled before turning back to the water.

He splashed his face a few more times with the cool water, still bracing after the chill desert night, before rising and yawning, beginning to run his fingers through his long white locks in an attempt to neaten them before his wife took notice. It always made Arya laugh uncontrollably, and most of the rest of the group too, when Lucina pinned Robin and brushed his hair.  

“Good morning,” she said, her greeting becoming a wide yawn of her own.

“Yeah, yawns are like bad ideas,” Robin scoffed, shaking the water droplets from his messy white hair. “They’re contagious. Hope you’re ready for a fun day of walking, because we’ve got a ways to go before we hit Grima’s Fall, and I want to be there by nightfall.”

Arya nodded as Robin walked back to the camp, yawning a few more times before he was out of sight.

The girl furrowed her brow in thought as she knelt down to the crystal clear water, hesitating to sink her hands into it as she caught sight of her reflection. She sighed, rubbing at the small scar that split her cheek as she looked at herself. After a few days of Brady’s careful ministrations her cheeks weren’t as sallow anymore, and her eyes weren’t sunken. Her skin was starting to look less like ash, too. Anna and Fae had fussed over her relentlessly once they were away from Themis, doing her hair and cleaning her up. At Anna’s urging she was wearing her hair in two small pigtails, which she had to admit looked kind of nice. It was another one of those things she had never bothered about before; she had always been too young to work in a brothel, so she’d never bothered with her appearance.

Arya winced as memories of her time spent in Themis’ slums resurfaced, roughly submerging her hands in the water and splashing it on her face.

It had been just like they had always said; the Ylisseans had been cruel. The Ylisseans had been merciless. They had hated her just for being Plegian. But… then she had met Van and Anna, Lucina and Brady. They weren’t bad people. They had been unceasingly kind to her. But she still couldn’t bring herself to trust them.

With another sigh she let herself fall back into a sitting position, thinking. She had left Plegia to find out the truth about Grima, something she had never told anyone before. An impulsive move, sure, and not quite a solid reason, but she had been young, and after the war her parents had been gone. She had wanted to know more about this entity that she had been raised to revere, and then stolen her life from her.

“Whatcha’ thinkin’’bout?” Fae asked, suddenly appearing at Arya’s side.

Fae grinned as the other girl jumped, leaning at an angle so her long dark purple hair hung down at a right-angle to her head. With a laugh Fae settled onto the ground next to Arya, smiling at her all the while.

“I was… just thinking,” Arya shrugged.

Fae nodded, propping her chin up on her hand.

“Well…” Arya muttered, looking away.

“Was it about Grima?” Fae asked suddenly.

Arya’s head snapped around, her eyes wide as she goggled at the other girl.

“How did you-”

“A lot of Plegians are really hung up on it,” Fae shrugged. “And fortunately you’ve got the best people to ask about it right over there. So stop dwelling and ask.”

Arya glanced over her shoulder at where Robin had disappeared back over the dune, letting out a little sigh.

“They just feel…” Arya said, struggling for the right words. “I don’t know… like they’re on a different level. They’re heroes. It’s kinda hard to approach them…”

Fae chuckled a little, her smile becoming playful.

“Well you don’t have any problem talking to me.”

“Well, yeah,” Arya agreed. “Why would I? Didn’t you say you’ve only been a Shepherd a little longer than me?”

“Well, I am a four-thousand year old dragon,” Fae laughed, pulling her hair back from her long, pointed ears. “Give or take a few hundred years.”

Arya stuttered, gaping like a fish as Fae leaned back and laughed, letting her hair fall back and cover her ears.

“There’s a reason I usually keep ‘em covered, but… In the end we’re all just people,” Fae said kindly. “Just ask your questions. I’m sure Robin would love to answer them. He loves to talk.”

Arya nodded, silently pulling her knees up to her chin again as they sat and watched the early sun reflecting off the water.

“You know,” Fae said conversationally, “It wasn’t far from here where I first met Robin and Anna. They were travelling with two different people at the time; a really nice guy that liked invading your personal space when he talked to you, and a really scary lady that… well, apparently we’re going to go see her now, so you’ll see for yourself.”

“You met him in the desert?” Arya asked curiously.

Fae nodded, smiling wistfully as she dipped the tip of her toe into the cold oasis water.

“Yeah. A lot of Robin’s life seems to revolve around this desert, weather he wants to admit it or not. You know what Anna’s making for breakfast? I’m starving.”

* * *

“Nope. No way. Not… I don’t… How? Just… How?”

Van let out a frustrated sigh as he leaned back from the chessboard, running his hands frustratedly through his hair while Arya fidgeted and looked embarrassed on the other side of the board. Their matches that morning had drawn most of the group into watching, and a number of them burst into laughter as the young tactician lost his fourth straight game.

“She’s been playing this game for, what, like three days?” he asked, exasperated. “How? What manner of creature are you that you can win so easily?”

“I just…” Arya fidgeted. “It’s just… common sense. Right?”

Van froze, looking at the girl in a mix of shock and awe before sighing and rising to his feet.

“I’m out,” he said, raising his hands in defeat.

“You always did suck at chess,” Galle shrugged.

“Why don’t you show us how it’s done then?” Van scoffed over his shoulder.

“I like the sound of that.” Severa agreed.

“Three silver says that the kid mops the floor with ‘im,” Brady muttered, leaning over to Owain.

“Five says she beats him in less than ten moves,” Anna chimed in.

Galle looked up from the book he had been engrossed in, an annoyed set to his features.

“What? No, I’m… reading.”

As he went to look back down at his book Mari nudged him in the arm with her elbow. When he gave her a dirty look she nodded at the chessboard, looking at him expectantly.

“Seriously? You too?” Galle sighed. “Fine. But don’t blame me if she never wants to play again after this.”

“Make that seven silver,” Anna amended, earning a fresh round of laughter.

Galle rolled his eyes, his face set in a scowl as he took a seat at the small portable table across from Arya. With quick, practiced hands he set up his pieces, giving Arya the first move as white. The game began in earnest, and the girl made a good start, pushing hard. But Galle had been applying chess strategy to his own tactics for years now, and he quickly turned the tables and in five moves had cornered her King. Coins were exchanged as Arya blushed at the attention her their game had attracted.

“She’s good,” Galle nodded. “I almost fell for that feint with her Queen. Good job, kid.”

Arya just nodded, still not speaking.

“And you really do just suck at chess!” Galle called to Van.

“Anyone else wanna embarrass ‘emselves while I’m on a roll?” Brady asked, tossing the coins Anna had grudgingly handed over into the air victoriously to punctuate his statement.

“Sorry to spoil the fun, but she has combat training to attend,” Lucina said apologetically, appearing at Arya’s shoulder.

There was a disappointed moan from the group before they began to disperse, but Arya’s face lit up.

“Am I going to learn magic?” she asked excitedly.

“Not from me,” Lucina laughed, holding out a wooden practice sword. “Oh, and don’t try to slink away again, Galle. You’re helping, too.”

There was a frustrated sigh from behind Arya, and the girl gave a small giggle as Galle shuffled forward. Not surprisingly, Mari was at his shoulder looking on as stone-faced as ever.

“Would you like to help, too, Mari?” Lucina asked.

The Chon’sin-born tactician nodded, brandishing her own practice sword by way of answer.

“I was wondering why you were carrying that stupid thing around all morning,” Galle muttered.

Mari looked over to the Plegian man, holding out a second practice sword. Lucina and Arya both laughed as Galle groaned and sighed.

“Alright, Arya,” the blue-haired woman said confidently. “We’re going to lead you through some more basic forms today.”

* * *

Robin grinned a little to himself as he watched Lucina leading Arya through the most basic sword forms she knew, Galle and Mari sparring not far away until they were needed. It would probably prolong their journey, waiting to break camp until so late in the morning, but it was worth it to watch Arya’s rapid progress.

“Kid’s a natural,” Van said, appearing at his former teacher’s shoulder. “Makes me wonder if all Plegians have this aptitude.”

“If we do it’s been a waste of our talent to be blindly worshipping Grima for so many centuries,” Robin sighed.

He turned away from the training session to look at Van. The younger man still had a habit of wearing his yellow scarf everywhere beneath his black coat, but had traded his old officer’s tunic in once he’d outgrown the garments. Instead he wore similar travelling clothes to Robin, but still with his old weapon’s belt and army boots still polished to a mirror sheen. In his hands he held the documents that Robin and Gaius had stolen, the tired look on his face clearly stating he’d just finished with them.

“Find anything of note?” Robin asked.

Van shook his head and sighed in frustration.

“Honestly? No,” he admitted. “I’ve been through those papers twice now, and all I can find is perfectly legal land acquisitions. A lot of them, most of them funded by a Vineyard in the south-east corner, but that’s about it. They must have a secret ledger somewhere, one with all their dirty dealings in it.”

“That, or all this is above-board,” Robin mused, rubbing his chin in thought.

“Then why attack us?” Van asked. “Why risk starting an international incident if everything they’re doing is legal? I mean it would have started an incident anyway, if you, the Khans and Exalt Chrom hadn’t suppressed it.”

Robin nodded, lost in thought.

“Which vineyard?” he asked suddenly.

“Uh…” Van started, flipping through some pages. “One of the relatively newer ones, Colet. Run by a merchant named… Alvin. He’s been implicated in a number of shady deals in the past, but no one’s ever been able to nail him before. Funny… last I heard he’d become part of the Southern Merchant Council. Would’ve thought he’d go clean after that.”

Robin nodded, grateful as always that he’d brought Van along. The young man had a penchant for listening and absorbing even the tiniest scrap of information wherever they travelled; idle gossip, military movements, what the local taverns were all serving for dinner, he didn’t make distinctions between information. Meaning that for all matters Ylisse-related Robin could pick his sponge-like brain and get details rivalling that of an intelligence network. _“It’s amazing what you’ll learn if you just listen”_ Van had said once, shrugging a little and grinning the way he always did. It was like having a younger version of Virion around, something that made Robin grin a little to himself.

“Shady how?” Robin asked.

“Slavery, abuse of his workers, tax evasion,” Van shrugged. “Pretty petty stuff compared to taking over an entire town in a neighboring country. Think he’s connected somehow?”

“I don’t know,” Robin admitted. “But I intend to find out. First we need more information, which means contacting Ylisstol at the very least.”

“At least Isaac will be happy to hear from us again,” Van said brightly, ever the optimist.

* * *

The Royal Mage’s Academy of Ylisstol was considered one of the three great powers of the Ylissean Haildom, comparable only to the Knight Orders and the Church of Naga. Therefore it came as no surprise to any that the third-largest building in the Ylissean capital was the Mage’s Tower, home to the Academy and the dozens of senior mages that comprised the faculty.

Many mages, however, chose to make their own workshops in small towns and villages or even alone in the wilderness, away from prying eyes where their skills weren’t hemmed in.

Clarus had considered such a course of action at many times during his career. As he stomped up the crowded outer staircase, passing the multitude of apprentices, students and assistants that made their homes in the tower’s lower levels he found himself revisiting those thoughts.

A small property, similar to the one that he had worked for the merchants on, where he could be alone with his research…

His hand tightened around the small bundle in his robe’s pocket as he frowned, glaring at any of the students that made eye contact with him. They all shrank back from his ire; Claus was one of the more even-tempered, likeable instructors at the academy. The way he was acting now was strange for him, to say the least.

The two apprentice-rank mages that followed Clarus looked down, refusing to make eye contact with any of their peers. No doubt many of the students passing by were wondering where Minuso was, the boy lying dead in a shallow grave after the Rommel brute had cut him down. Galuc and Alvidian had been quiet and withdrawn ever since they had finished with the experiment, Clarus choosing to imbue the Rommel’s armor plates by himself rather than expose the boys further to the strange substance that had been their spell catalyst.

Finally the trio passed through the classroom wing and into the private offices and quarters of the senior mages above them, Clarus leading the two apprentices wordlessly to his own office. Without hesitating he pushed open his door, ushering the two boys into the room before closing and bolting the heavy wooden door. For good measure he put a weak defense ward on it, too.

The large room had once been a classroom that Clarus had repurposed, his large desk and two other long tables covered in scrolls, books and glass beakers and vials of all shapes and sizes taking up the majority of the space. Huge, overflowing bookshelves lined the room, covering the windows so that the only light came from the candles that Clarus lit with a lazy wave of his hand.

At last, now that they were alone, Clarus pulled the small bundle carefully out of his pocket and set it down on his desk while Alvidian and Galuc watched. He gently opened the rough cloth, exposing the six shards of black ore that had been leftovers from the armor to the air.

“Magnificent,” Clarus breathed.

“Master, we should inform the Mage General and the Librarians what we’ve found,” Galuc said hesitantly. “If this is a previously undiscovered element then we will need to catalogue it, to say nothing of its inherit magic-amplifying abilities-”

“Stop talking,” Clarus hissed.

This had been a point of contention between the trio since Minuso had died. Alvidian wanted to keep the shards to study, while Galuc had insisted on handing them over to the Librarians for cataloguing. Minuso had been their tie-breaker, wanting to hand the shards over, too. Clarus had openly declared that the three students would decide the fate of the shards, but without a third vote it came down to him to decide what to do.

“Master?” Alvidian asked, stepping closer.

“I suppose you want to hand these over now, too?” the senior mage asked, his gaze snapping up.

The apprentice shook his head, looking at the shards with undisguised curiosity.

“Of course not! I want – need - to know what makes them work,” he admitted. “I have to know what makes them so powerful that Minuso had to die for them.”

“But Al, you know the laws of the tower state-“ Galuc started.

“That we hand them over, yes,” Alvidian grunted. “But think about it, Galuc! We have here something that no one else has ever seen before! And we’ve already started our research on them. You saw what the shards did to that gryphon! We may as well see it through so that the Librarians can properly catalogue it when we do hand it over, right?”

“What we did to that creature was an abomination!” Galuc shouted.

“But it had never been done before,” Alvidian said, a cold grin rising to his face. “Why, just imagine what would happen if we did that to a person!?”

“Master, please consider your status!” Galuc pleaded, turning now to Clarus. “You are one of the senior mages of the academy, you can’t just throw that away!”

The senior mage remained silent, still leaning over the shards.

“I believe,” he said after a moment, “that I will rise through the ranks quite a bit once we finish our research. And that when I am done, the two of you will be fully-fledged mages in your own rights.”

Galuc shook his head, stepping back from the other two.

“Fine,” the boy said, frowning deeply now as his voice started to shake. “You leave me with little recourse. If you will not do the right thing, then I will. Naga, you haven’t even reported Minuso’s death yet!”

“It would interrupt our research!” Clarus thundered, finally looking up from the shards with an animal snarl.

“No, no,” the senior mage said much softer as he looked back down at the shards. “We… we have much to do. And Galuc, you… you’re going to be integral to my experiments. I can’t do this without you…”

The younger boy went pale at his master’s tone, eyes widening as the respected mage began to chuckle a little to himself.

“I… I…” Galuc started, shakily reaching for his spellbook.

“Fire!” Clarus shrieked, extending his hand.

Galuc spun, hit in the shoulder by the spell and dropping to the ground. He looked up, Clarus looming over him with one of the shards clasped in his fist as flames still danced from his other hand.

“H-how…?” Galuc managed to gasp. “Without… a s-spellbook?”

“These shards are the future, my boy!” Clarus said happily. “You should be honored to be a part of that!”

Galuc shuffled backwards on the floor as his teacher advanced, a manic grin and a strange, alien red glow in his eyes. The student couldn’t help but wonder, as his back found one of the bookshelves on the periphery of the room, just what had happened to his teacher.

Clarus knelt down, grabbing Galuc’s jaw and wrenching his mouth open.

“N-no! Nooooo!” Galuc cried as his teacher forced the shard down his throat.

* * *

That afternoon the small caravan of Shepherds shuffled into one of the small oasis towns dotting Plegia’s central desert region, passing through the buildings as Anna led them to the trading post near the water’s edge.

It was getting late now, the result of Lucina’s training Arya all morning. Which meant they would either have to camp or rent a room. Fortunately, money wasn’t an issue. Robin was technically a Prince, and Lucina was the former Exalt of her time period. While they had both renounced their titles to live a quiet life in the north they still had quite a bit of capital between them, so renting a few rooms in a small town like this would barely be a drop in the bucket of their savings.

“We gonna camp again, Boss?” Brady asked, shuffling along next to the tactician.

“Maybe,” Robin shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“There’s a sandstorm coming,” Arya piped up helpfully from behind them. “I… feel it in the air.”

“Okay, we’ll rent some rooms then,” Robin grinned over his shoulder. “Trust the local to save us getting buried in sand.”

Arya blushed under her teacher’s praise as Robin faced forward again.

 “Hear that Anna!?” he called to the merchant. “We’re looking to rent some rooms! I’ll leave the haggling to you!”

She cackled in pre-emptive triumph from her wagon’s seat at the front of the column, clearly happy to have her ‘skills’ made use of rather than just her vehicle. Robin actually felt sorry for the poor innkeeper she was about to descend upon.

“Aren’t you a local, too, milord?” Gaius asked lazily.

“Shut up or I’m making you sleep in the sandstorm,” Robin growled.

The thief grinned and held up his hands in mock surrender, chuckling a little as Robin seethed.

* * *

That evening the group of Shepherds sat around in the common room of the inn that Anna had chosen, talking or relaxing after dinner. The wind howled outside, the sandstorm having descended on the small oasis not long after the Shepherds had arrived. Robin was sitting off to one side of the room, studying an old Valmese map with Arya and trying to get her to think unconventionally about the problem he’d presented her.

“… and if you move your troops here,” he said, pointing to a ridge above a small valley on the paper, “you can flank from above. Perfect for lightly armored troops, especially Feroxi trackers. They love doing stupid stuff like jumping on their enemies.”

_I’ll just not mention the particular story about jumping off an airborne pegasus…_ Robin chuckled to himself.

Arya nodded intently as Robin pushed some small wooden tokens around the map.

“Questions?” he asked.

“No,” she said, shaking her head.

The girl studied the map, carefully committing the pieces and the movements she’d seen to memory. Robin let out another soft chuckle, gently sweeping his hand across the map and gathering up the pieces. Arya looked up questioningly at her teacher’s behavior, clearly about to protest.

“Don’t think that that was the only way to defeat the enemy,” he said, ruffling her short hair. “My lessons are only suggestions, kid. There’s always a better way that you might not see until you’re on the ground with your troops. Understand?”

“Yes, master,” she said brightly, understanding dawning in her eyes.

“Good,” Robin said, leaning back in his chair. “Now, why don’t you go and relax. I have to talk to the others about our next move.”

Arya nodded as she stood, hesitating before turning away.

“Yes?” Robin asked from beneath his fringe.

“Can… can I borrow your book on tactics?” she asked meekly. “I’d like to do a… little more reading.”

“Sure, here,” Robin shrugged, reaching into his pouch. “But work on your confidence. No one’s going to follow a timid tactician.”

Arya nodded, cradling the handwritten tome that Robin had crafted through nearly a decade of war as she walked towards the brazier burning in the center of the room.

“Don’t smudge the pages,” Robin called after her, a smile on his face.

Arya sank down next to Fae, who was staring at the bright embers of the fire with a bored look on her face. Both girls laughed as Arya said something that Robin didn’t catch before opening the book on her lap. Fae curiously glanced over Arya’s shoulder, and the young trainee began to explain some of the simpler tactical theories to her.

“You seem to be quite taken with the child,” Lucina commented from above him.

Robin glanced up over his shoulder, his smile growing a little.

“Hey, honey,” he said, reaching up to take her hand. “I just can’t help but think she reminds me of you when we first met.”

“Oh?” Lucina asked, chuckling as she moved around to her husband’s front.

“She gives me the same feeling,” Robin explained. “The same survivor’s grit that you exuded when we met in the forest near Southtown.”

“I see,” Lucina said with a nod, sinking down to perch on one of Robin’s knees.

She leaned up and planted a kiss on his cheek before leaning against him and resting her head against his shoulder, the same way she had when they had been pressed for space on the return voyage from Valm so many years ago now.

“Just do not forget who your wife is, dear,” she mumbled comfortably.

Robin scoffed, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her closer.

“Don’t worry, you’re much prettier,” he told her.

Someone cleared their throat from Robin’s other side, and both of them glanced up to see Galle, Mari and Van looking down at them with different expressions; irritation, a playful grin and a familiar neutral look.

“If you two are, uh, busy we can come back later,” Van suggested, waggling his eyebrows.

“Don’t start,” Robin sighed. “Sit. You’re making me antsy.”

Lucina moved to get off his lap as the trio sat around them, but the older tactician held her tight.

“This won’t take long,” he muttered to her before looking back to his former students.

“So we have a lead now,” Robin announced. “A merchant on the Southern Merchant Council named Alvin is supposedly working with the Rommels, and I want to know why. Meaning we’re going to need to track this one down. Firstly, we need more intel. Any suggestions?”

“Is there anyone we can talk to?” Van asked. “Anyone that can give us some solid intel?”

“He’s on the Southern Merchant Council, right?” Galle muttered, before looking up. “Before I joined the school I had a job for another member of the Council, a Plegian merchant named Abdul. He has a trading post based in an Oasis town towards the south, the Ama al-Tha trading company in Saiqat.”

“Think he’ll meet with you?” Robin asked.

“I only insulted half of his customers, disobeyed my superiors and ignored most of the standard protocol while I was working for him, so sure, I’d bet he’d love to see me again,” Galle scoffed.

“Okay, we’ll start there, then,” Robin decided. “We’ll put Grima’s Fall on hold for now, I guess. Now that that’s settled, leave me alone with my wife. We have husband-and-wife things to discuss.”

“Urgh. Gross,” Galle groaned as he stood.

Van chuckled as he left the impromptu meeting, shaking his head a little as Galle followed him muttering under his breath. Mari lingered just long enough to give a polite bow before hurrying after the two other tacticians.

“I love that we brought those three with us,” Robin commented, leaning back again. “I just never have to do any thinking for myself anymore. I trained them well.”

Lucina sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Did I not warn you that you would get fat?” she mumbled sleepily. “Your head is the part of you getting fat right now.”

* * *

The next morning Arya yawned and stretched as she stepped into the morning light outside the Inn, heading for the space where Lucina was supposedly waiting for her. Morning training sessions after breakfast were becoming the norm, now, and Arya could actually feel the difference it was making. After her muscles stopped hurting, that was.

To her surprise, though, it wasn’t Lady Lucina, or even Galle or Panne, waiting for her.

Robin gave her a small smile as she hesitated, indicating she join him.

Arya smiled and jogged towards her teacher excitedly. Unlike the Ylissean fencing instructor, she felt real kinship with Robin. He was her people’s true King, after all. She just felt more… comfortable around the other Plegians.

“We’re not heading straight to Grima’s Fall after all, now,” the tactician explained. “So that means I have to test your magic affinity myself if we want to get you started. The sooner, the better after all. It’s easier to learn when you’re young. Do you know anything at all about magic?”

Arya shook her head. All she knew was that it was an art practiced by the Dark Mages and the Ylissean Mages, one that took a lifetime to master. She had never even considered trying to learn magecraft before, but according to her teacher she had the potential, so…

“Alright then,” Robin nodded. “Tharja and Aversa both explain this a lot better than I do, but I’ll give it a shot.”

“All around us there is a source of energy called mana. Only a few certain people can properly tap into this source. It’s… easier if you imagine the world is covered by an invisible web. Nature, or Anima, mages tug at the strands of the web to cast powerful spells. It is from that natural power their spells take the form of lightning, wind and fire. Dark magic, though, is far more complex. Still with me here?”

Arya nodded, her eyes wide as she desperately tried to soak the lecture in.

“From what I can tell, dark magic was an accident,” Robin continued. “Grima never meant for us to learn its secrets, and in the earliest days many Dark Mages went insane trying to master it. To this day many combat Dark Mages are still crippled by their craft, left drained and consumed by the powers they wield. I, myself, am no exception.”

Robin bent down, pulling his hair back to display the blackened cracks behind his ear. Arya gasped in horror, but Robin waved her off.

“It’s still in its early stages, so all I have to do is go easy on the Dark Magic and I’m fine,” he assured her. “Now, where was I? Right. Anima mages, they tug and tweak the strings of mana in the world, leaving them intact. But Dark Mages, they tear at it, creating holes that allow the chaos of pure power to flow into our world from the void outside reality. This was Grima’s ‘gift’ to us, and is also why Plegia is a desert wasteland. Dark Magic damages the web of mana after a while; generations of mages tore at the web, diminishing it until it was so damaged it could no longer support life in the country. But an important factor to remember with Dark Magic is the wear it also takes on a mage’s mind and soul. These scars are proof that my soul is scarred by the arte, and that I’m no longer whole. So long-story-short, if at all possible I’m going to be pushing you away from Dark Magic.”

Arya nodded again, swallowing nervously.

“A-are there… side effects to anima magic, too?” she asked.

“Not unless you light your head on fire with a miss-casted spell,” Robin laughed. “I’ve done that before, too!”

Arya snickered before growing serious again.

“How do I… magic?” she asked.

“Trust me when I say you’re not going to be shooting fireballs today,” Robin chuckled. “The first step is meditation. Learn to clear your mind and concentrate on the mana-flow around you. Feel the lines of power that surround us, permeate us and everything around us. Until you can do that, you won’t be able to so much as make a spark.”

Arya nodded her understanding, feeling her excitement wane a little.

“Aw, it’s not so bad,” Robin said with a grin when he saw her face fall. “Once you can feel the flow it only takes a second to tap into it. Meditation becomes calming, rather than necessary.”

Arya nodded again, fidgeting before letting out a sigh.

“C-can I ask you something?” she said quietly.

“I actively encourage it,” Robin answered with a smile.

“Can… you tell me about… Grima?” she asked, her voice growing quieter and quieter as she looked at the ground between her feet.

When Robin didn’t answer immediately she looked up, her breath hitching at the sad expression on her teacher’s face.

“Unfortunately, I don’t know a lot about him,” Robin said softly. “All I did was kill him. Why do you ask?”

“My p-parents,” Arya said, trailing off again.

The older tactician sighed and nodded his understanding. Arya let out a subtle breath she’d been holding, congratulating herself for finally asking.

“Are you sure?” Robin asked quietly. “Once you go down this rabbit hole you might not like what you find.”

Arya nodded, determined to finally know why her family and friends had all died.

“It wasn’t Grima that decimated our country,” Robin explained. “It was a madman named Validar, obsessed with reviving him. He was… my Father.”

Arya’s eyes widened at the admission, and Robin smiled bitterly as he continued.

“He was a master of manipulation, using ancient dark magics that controlled peoples’ minds. I was too slow to stop him that day. He cast a spell that… convinced more than half of the Plegian population to sacrifice themselves, to offer their life-force to Grima. So really it wasn’t Grima per say that killed so many, but Validar. And trust me when I say that I made sure he was dead myself.”

“S-so then… why?” Arya asked. “Why kill all those people?”

“To try and break me,” Robin admitted. “Those deaths were supposed to break me and convince me to accept my destiny and become Grima. I was supposed to be Grima’s vessel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘how do I magic’ is possibly one of my favorite lines I’ve ever written. I don’t know why, it just makes me smile.


	9. Chapter 9

Evening in Ylisstol was usually a time of relaxation and calm as the day wound down, laborers and merchants alike, rich and poor and young and old all flocking to the local watering holes to wash down the day’s events with cool ale, or wash away the day’s failures with harsher alcohols.

The Mage Academy was no different when the sun went down; students returned to their dorm rooms or, if they were locals, returned to their homes to study and rest up. Teachers and other staff would often meet in the upper floors’ common rooms, their own unique form of watering holes, to discuss their days or to argue politics and philosophy over fine wines after dinner.

It was a good place to end the day, a calming period that Clarus usually quite enjoyed.

Instead he found himself bursting into his own room and slamming the door behind him, submerging himself in inky blackness as he fumbled for the heavy door’s locks with shaky hands. When he finally succeeded in locking the door he let out a shuddering breath, motioning three times with his hand before he finally succeeded in getting the spell right and lighting the small lamp he kept at his desk.

The senior mage shuddered again, taking fast, shallow breaths as he leaned his sweaty brow against the cool wood of his door.

Then all at once he lost his composure and spun, running to the cistern he kept in the corner of the room and doubling over it, retching until his stomach was empty.

“What have I done?” Clarus moaned in-between heaves. “Wh-what have… I done? Oh Naga, Galuc… Galuc I… I…”

He’d killed the boy. Or very near, anyway. When he and Alvidian had left the other student, broken and shackled to the stone floor of Clarus’ lab, he’d felt nothing. Nothing except the mild hunger he would usually get after a hard day of work. But now…

Clarus sobbed as he coughed up his light dinner, holding the edges of the cistern with white knuckles as he tried to steady himself. When he was sure it was safe he slowly rose, emptying a pitcher of cool, clean water into the nearby small tub he kept for shaving to wash his face.

When he looked up in the mirror he was shocked by what looked back.

He had aged at least five years in the afternoon. Dark rings circled his eyes, and small black cracks webbed from the corners of his eyes back to his temples. His dark hair had begun greying at the sides, and had even thinned at the top.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No! No, no, no, no, no!”

He splashed his face with the water from the tub, scrubbing his face roughly with his bare hands and nails. He felt the nails of his hands break the skin on his forehead and cheeks, blood starting to drip into the tub of water beneath him as he hunched over it and sobbed again.

“What is… happening to me?”

He looked up again, tears and blood running down his face to confront himself in the mirror.

Instead he was met by the sight of another man staring back at him. A man wearing a cold smile, his long brown hair swept back from his relatively handsome face, and his eyes radiating a cold, infinite black light.

Clarus spun, already casting a spell that would burn the intruder in his private sanctum to ashes, but was met with an empty room.

After a tense moment of silence Clarus could no longer contain the shaking in his knees, sliding to the floor and holding his face in his hands as he tried to deny what he’d done.

And he could swear, just at the edge of his perception, he could hear someone laughing at his anguish.

* * *

Arya sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, swaying back and forth with the motion of Anna’s wagon. The Shepherds were crossing the desert now, and, according to the surly priest Brady, Arya was still too weak to make the desert crossing on foot.

Usually she wouldn’t mind not having to tromp through the desert; she was Plegian, so it was something she was overly familiar with after a lifetime of living in the wastelands. But sitting there in the back of the wagon alone, she couldn’t help but well on what she’d learned the previous day.

_“I was supposed to be Grima’s avatar.”_

Could she still follow Robin after what she’d learned? Sure, it appeared neither that he, nor Grima for that matter, had been entirely at fault for the deaths of her family, but…

The girl sighed, wondering what to do.

“What’cha doing?” Fae asked, her head suddenly appearing in a blinding slit of light as she opened the rear canvas flap.

Arya squeaked, jumping a little in surprise. The manakete chuckled as she climbed up into the wagon, perching on the crate across from the Plegian girl and grinning expectantly.

“I’m… trying to meditate,” Arya admitted. “Trying to feel the flow of mana and find something I can tap into. But…”

“Kinda hard in Plegia, isn’t it?” Fae asked when the other girl trailed off. “That’s why I like it here in the desert. Manaketes like me are a lot more in tune with the world’s mana flows; it’s like noise to me, white noise in the background. I can tell if someone is casting a spell a mile away in particularly dense mana zones. But here in the desert… it’s quiet. Look at it this way; if you can tap them here, you can do it anywhere!”

Arya nodded raptly before shaking her head.

“N-no,” she said. “Well, I mean yes, but that’s not why I’m having trouble. I… asked Robin to tell me… about g-Grima…”

“Ahhhhh,” Fae nodded, sitting up straighter. “So he told you the whole story, huh? About him and the Fell Dragon?”

Arya sighed, nodding and looking at the floor of the wagon.

“It’s… bugging me,” she said after a moment of silence. “I don’t want to dwell on it, but… my whole family died so Grima could be revived and he-”

Arya trailed off as a pair of soft hands came to rest on her shoulders. She glanced up to see Fae’s face wearing a serious expression for the first time since she had met the manakete.

“Arya, listen to me very carefully, and please believe what I am about to say,” she said in a low, serious voice. “Robin is not, nor was he ever or will he ever be, Grima. Robin fought hard and almost died to avoid becoming Grima’s host. He has suffered greatly to remain who he is, and to keep his own soul. He endured suffering I cannot even begin to imagine to not only save himself, but all of us.”

Arya nodded mutely and Fae smiled again, sitting back on her crate.

“I don’t make a habit of telling people this,” she went on, smiling her usual gentle smile. “But I’m very old, as far as manaketes go, and I’m pretty sensitive to these kinds of things; so when I tell you that Robin is not Grima you can believe me. So if you can’t trust him just yet, I’ll vouch for him.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, Arya considering this new information while Fae waited patiently for her reaction. When Arya finally looked up again she blinked at the manakete for a moment before grinning a little.

“So… how old are you, anyway?” she asked playfully.

“Really?” Fae laughed. “That’s what you took from that talk? Well, whatever, you’re not brooding anymore. Oh! I know! I’ll help you get into a meditative state! Close your eyes and just do what I say, and you’ll be feeling the mana flow in no time! Now, close your eyes and take a deep breath…”

* * *

That evening the caravan finally stopped on a hill overlooking the city of Saiqat, the sun having long since gone down. Robin let out a sigh as he sank to the bench seat at the front of Anna’s wagon, the fire spell he’d been using to illuminate their path blinking out. They had long since entered the central dune-sea of Plegia, and the entire party was ready to take a well-deserved break. Desert crossings were always hard, especially on the non-Plegian members of the group. Arya had long since begun to walk amongst the others rather than ride in the wagon, having partially been able to sense the mana flow in the air around them with Fae’s help earlier that afternoon. Now she stood next to Galle and the other young tacticians as they marveled at the city of Saiqat before them.

The city sprawled out around the central oasis, irrigation channels feeding water from the small lake to the districts furthest out near the city walls. Dust and sand blew around the palms and water-grasses that grew along the shore of the oasis itself, large, squat clay buildings making up the majority of the city.

“We’re not camping in the desert, are we?” Van asked sullenly. “I mean, I don’t mind the camping, but the desert… I don’t like. It’s the sand. I can never seem to get it out of my underwear when we sleep in the desert.”

“Wow, add that to the list of things I never needed to think about,” Galle groaned.

“No, we’re going to the inn,” Robin said, his voice dripping exhaustion.

“My family owns one of the smaller inns, so we’ll get the family discount,” Anna chirped, giving the young tacticians a wink before she urged the horse toward the city.

Galle resisted the urge to sigh as they approached the city gates, mostly because of the dust. The young tactician liked to think he was rather tolerant of the different locales he’d been in; at worst he could claim total indifference to a place, like he had in Silva or Misayl. But Saiqat he didn’t like. In fact it wasn’t a stretch to say that he hated Saiqat.

The oasis city was the place he had ended up in after Grima’s defeat, when the Plegian refugees had flooded back to the nation from the north. Saiqat held a lot of bad memories for him, not to mention people that might recognize him.

He glanced to his side, watching Arya out of the corner of his eye. The younger girl marched along beside him happily, almost like she was excited. Mari, too, had a slight hitch in her step; she had mentioned always wanting to visit and explore Plegia, so she was probably excited too. Van…

“Oh man, this is so exciting!” the Ylissean boy said. “I’ve never been to a Plegian city before! What’s the food like? Oh! Are we going to sleep on the floor like they do in Chon’sin?”

“You can if you want,” Galle scoffed.

Van was just as chipper as he usually was. Which was to say, he was getting on Galle’s nerves. Like usual.

“Aw, c’mon man, cheer up!” Van laughed. “This is fun for us! Look, even the kid’s excited!”

Arya jumped a little before positioning herself further behind Galle’s form, warily glaring at the Ylissean.

“Okay, so she still doesn’t like me,” Van shrugged. “Mari, you’re excited, right?”

The Chon’sinian woman nodded slightly, eyes never leaving the city before them. Galle did sigh this time, running a hand through his hair and scowling. Mari hesitated a moment where she was ahead of him before hanging back to match her pace with Galle’s. She nudged him lightly in the arm with her elbow, the corners of her lips turning up in what approximated as an excited grin for her, and the Plegian tactician felt his resistance crumble. He turned, grinning slightly at Arya. 

“No place like home, huh?” he muttered to the girl, shrugging helplessly.

Arya nodded, smiling too, now. Galle’s face returned to a scowl as Mari and a reticent Arya moved ahead a little faster to catch up with Van.

As they passed under the archway of the city’s gates and Robin began to speak with the town guards all Galle could think of was his disdain for this particular patch of earth.

* * *

Arya shuffled into the common room that the Shepherds were sharing later that evening, freshly bathed and clad in clean clothes, both sensations that were so rare for her they were almost alien. The gentle scent of soap from her clothes and the wafting smell of flowers from the concoction that Fae had washed her hair with made her smile a little to herself, if for no other reason than they reminded her of her childhood.

She was back in Plegia, and it felt good. It felt like coming home.

But, Arya reminded herself, she hadn’t quite figured out the truth about Grima that she’d been seeking.

With a dejected sigh her smile dropped and she shuffled through the common room, past the various pairs and groups that were sitting around, and came to rest perched on a small stool next to where Galle was reading. Beside the dour tactician Mari and Van were playing chess, although it would be more accurate to say that Van was losing and Mari was dominating the board.

She watched in silence for a while before the four of them all looked up at once at Owain’s booming laugh; the blonde swordsman was sitting with Robin, Lucina, Brady and Severa, and clearly Robin had just said something incredibly amusing judging by the way Brady was guffawing, too. Severa silenced the men, though, by dragging Owain back down to his chair and cuffing him upside the head before glaring Brady down, blushing as bright as her hair.

“Never a dull moment, huh?” Van chuckled with a weak grin before sighing and looking forlornly at the chessboard.

“Yes, I do so love having my reading constantly interrupted by idiots,” Galle sighed, rolling his eyes and grinning slightly.

Mari shot the Plegian boy a glare, to which he sighed again and held up his hands in defeat, his grin widening a little before going back to his reading.

Arya looked around the room again, eyes settling on the view overlooking the city from a nearby window. The ‘inn’ was actually one of the floors of the Anna’s small trading post in the city; but it was only a ‘small’ trading post compared to the others in Saiqat. The Anna’s trading post was actually three stories high, and covered an entire block. The bottom floor had been made up of a small warehouse and receiving dock with adjoining offices, the middle floor was the quarters for the foreign staff, and the top floor was reserved for the travelling Annas and their entourages when they passed though.

Apparently even travelling merchants couldn’t take all of their stock with them at once.

“Hey, kid!” Galle grunted, snapping his fingers in front of her face.

Arya jumped, eyes wide as she looked back at the others. Mari had her usual neutral expression on, while Van simply grinned and Galle scowled.

“Y-yes!?” she asked panicked.

“Is. There. Anyone. Using. The bath?” Galle said, clearly repeating himself.

“N-no,” Arya squeaked. “A-at least it… should be free…”

Mari nodded, rising to her feet in one fluid motion. She silently nodded her thanks to Arya before brushing past her and leaving the common room. There was a moment of silence before Van sighed, sagging in his chair.

“I really do suck at this game,” he groaned, staring at the ceiling.

Galle chuckled, glancing at Arya again as she frowned into space. The older Plegian let out a sigh and turned his full attention on her, clapping his book shut and placing it down next to the chessboard.

“Sir Robin said he’d told you about Grima,” Galle said steadily. “He also mentioned you weren’t taking it well.”

Arya jumped a little again before settling, nodding hesitantly.

“S-so… you know, too, then?” she asked quietly.

Van scoffed, beginning to pack up the chess pieces.

“Course we do!” the Ylissean said. “He’s not exactly discrete about it.”

“Th-then…” Arya started, trailing off immediately at a loss for words.

Galle shrugged as Van grinned at her.

“Far as I’m concerned, he’s the boss no matter what,” Van said, rising to his feet. “He earned that title when he saved Ylisse. What he was, what he was supposed to be… it’s all in the past. It doesn’t matter now, so I’m going to go slink off to bed before anyone else creams me at this stupid game. Night, guys.”

“That’s right, you’d better run,” Galle called after the Ylissean with a slight grin on his face.

Van chuckled, shooting a rude hand gesture over his shoulder as he left the room for the space that he would be bunking in. Arya watched silently before looking back at Galle expectantly.

“What?” he snapped after a few seconds. “As ineloquent as it was, I agree with Van’s sentiments on the matter. And I cannot believe I just said that…”

“It really doesn’t bother you?” Arya persisted.

“Should it? It might have bothered me, before I came to terms with it,” he shrugged. “Does it bother you?”

Arya thought long and hard for a moment before slowly nodding.

“Yes,” she admitted in a small voice.

“Why?” Galle asked.

“I-I lost my whole family,” Arya said.

“So did I. Both parents. Dad to the Ylisseans, and Mom to Grima. Yet here I am.”

Arya started, shocked.

“S-so then you-”

“Don’t care at all about Robin’s connection to Grima,” Galle cut her off. “I was never a religious person before the war, anyway, so to me it’s more like a story than a fact. Most of us here didn’t see what the original Shepherds had to go through, so to us they’re just stories. If I were you, I wouldn’t put so much stock in stories.”

Arya sat there mutely as Galle stood, brushing his pants off.

“I’m going for a walk,” he announced, leaving the room. “Think about why it bothers you, kid. And more importantly, think about whether it should bother you. Us Plegians aren’t slaves to the past anymore. Stop letting it control you.”

Arya watched him go before she went back to staring out the window, trying to sort through her thoughts.

* * *

_Us Plegians aren’t slaves to the past anymore. Stop letting it control you._

Galle scoffed at his own words as he trudged through the night markets of Saiqat, losing himself in the flow of the crowd.

There was a word for what people like Galle were: hypocrite.

It was safe to say that the past still had a pretty firm grip on his own mind, considering just how much he hated Saiqat. At this level, this personal level that simply involved him wandering around the streets, brushing through the night crowd and simply aimlessly shuffling wherever his feet took him, the city wasn’t so bad. It was when he thought about the way that Ama al-Tha had jumped at the chance to seize power in the city, and how he had contributed to their rise to prominence, that he felt the sickness return.

It had been a small war when the merchants had vied for control of Saiqat, and with so many adults lost in the constant fighting it had been the children forced to take up arms for the remaining ‘masters’. The orphaned children had been turned into soldiers and sent off to kill each other in the name of the various Plegian trading companies. And those with skills in any martial arts of magic, such as Galle, had been both highly prized and even more destructive. In the end, though, they had been taken advantage of, and all of it had been covered up in the chaos of Plegia’s monarchy ending.

Galle couldn’t blame Prime-Minister Mustafa for it; after all, the big man had come down hard on the merchant groups and pseudo-military organizations exploiting child labor and soldiers, but it had been too little, too late. For an entire generation of children, Galle’s generation of children, the damage had been done already.

He stopped walking when he realized that his boots weren’t crunching the packed dirt of the street any more, but rather he’d stepped out onto one of the stone bridges crisscrossing the oasis and leading to the artificial islands in its center. Galle chuckled a little, realizing that old habits had led him to the Ama al-Tha trading company’s base, the massive building glittering in the reflected light of the lake it sat atop across the bridge.

The tactician leaned back against the stone handrail, grinning and shaking his head at his own foolishness as he crossed his arms.

In trying to avoid thinking about his past, he’d been brought right back to the source of the pain.

“Guess I can’t get away from it after all, huh?” he muttered, watching the lights from the massive building dancing reflected in the water.

Galle glanced up again as he heard the distinct sound of a wagon approaching, drawing his hood up and watching its progress in boredom. A large wagon, drawn by two sturdy-looking horses and almost over-loaded with goods pulled up to the bridge, the al-Tha merchants steering it already laughing and drinking. They passed Galle without so much as a glance, and he had to smirk. In the old days, when he’d been working for them, a hooded stranger watching on their bridge would have been thoroughly ‘investigated’. Security had clearly grown lax while he’d been away.

Not that it mattered, Galle reminded himself, staring out from under his hood. He wasn’t scouting out an enemy. He was only here looking for information. This wasn’t a battlefield, not anymore. Saiqat had been one of the first cities to bounce back after the new rulers of the country had been established, so what did they have to fear from one lone hooded stranger?

Galle scoffed again, bouncing himself off the railing and turning away from the building.

Honestly, if it were up to him, he’d give them a reason to fear the hooded strangers again.

But, he kept reminding himself as he walked away from the bridge, this was a fact-finding mission. He wasn’t here to burn down the source of his trauma, just to get information from them. But before he could, he needed to find out if they had the information he needed.

He walked back to the bustling crowds of the night-markets, actually paying attention this time. Once he was there he began looking for a familiar pattern on one of the colorful canvas awnings of the stalls, wondering where exactly his old friend had set up…

With a predatory grin Galle spotted the particular red and yellow pattern that his eyes and ears had always used in the old days and started navigating the crowd, angling for the wheat-merchant’s stall. Under the awning crates had been set up to display whole bushels and already ground flour, and judging from the amount he had available even at this late hour business had been good in the last five years. Galle approached the stall, pulling his hood off and shaking his dark purple hair loose so that he’d be easily recognizable.

“Welcome, sir to… holy Grima, Galle is that you!?” the stall’s proprietor greeted, trailing off into a shocked exclamation.

“Arin!” Galle laughed. “You got fat while I was gone! Didn’t I tell you to stop eating the product before I left?”

The merchant, Arin, laughed and stood, greeting Galle with outstretched arms. He was short and stocky, and was clearly failing in his attempt to grow a ‘respectable merchant’s beard’ like he’d always talked about, if the patchy growth on his cheeks and chin were anything to go by. His mid-section had grown most out of any other part of him, though, and now Galle’s old friend no doubt weighed twice what he had when the tactician had left.

Arin grabbed Galle in a tight bear-hug, lifting the smaller man off the ground as he patted his back. For his part, the dour tactician grimaced and endured the habitual greeting; if Arin wasn’t the nosiest and most well-informed bastard in Saiqat there was no way Galle would put up with this.

When Arin finally released Galle he stepped back, smiling happily.

“What brings you back to the puddle?” he asked, resuming his seat behind his stock.

Galle forced a grin at the old nickname for Saiqat’s oasis.

“Work, apparently,” the tactician sighed.

“Oh? Well there’s a scary thought!” Arin laughed, his voice booming. “I still remember the last time you ‘worked’ in Saiqat! Do me a favor and be a little gentler this time, the city’s only just recovered! Ha-hah!”

Forcing himself to chuckle along with Arin’s laughter Galle tried not to snap at the other man. Arin considered them friends. Galle had always considered Arin a useful tool, and nothing more. But the illusion was necessary.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Galle said through a forced grin. “So you still doing business with al-Tha?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Arin nodded. “They’re the reason I’m so fat! They import the best flour from Ylisse! Not a lot of people were buying it in the early days though; they prefer the sandy crap from the south here, so I had to eat a lot of it myself or it would have gone to waste!”

“Oh, I’ll just bet,” Galle muttered as Arin laughed again.

“So they’re still dealing with Ylisse, huh?” Galle pressed on, pretending to bend down and inspect some of the Ylissean-marked flour. “It still coming from the north of Ylisstol, then?”

“No, no,” Arin chuckled. “It’s all southern now. Humidity makes growing crops easier, and the winter’s shorter, too, so there’s more time to grow. All comes from some southern land-owner now, at least the stuff that al-Tha sells to me.”

“Grima, Arin! Never thought you’d buy so much Ylissean stock!” Galle exclaimed.

“Bah, the Plegian wheat all tastes like sand!” Arin spat. “And if the Alvin trading company wants to sell cheap, who am I to complain?”

“He does seem like the kind of guy to name his company after himself, doesn’t he?” Galle mumbled, running his fingertips through the light, fluffy flour.

“Gotta say, you got a lot more curious while you’ve been gone,” Arin said. “What is it you do now, anyway?”

“Who, me?” Galle asked, standing up and smiling proudly. “I’m a tactician. Did I not open with that? I usually open with that.”

* * *

When an exhausted Galle finally shuffled into the common room of the Annas’ apartment the next morning he did so reluctantly and with great bags under his eyes. He hadn’t been out that late, but being back in Saiqat had brought back all kinds of foul memories and nightmares, and he’d hardly slept at all.

Robin and Arya looked up from where the older tactician was still trying to instruct her on how to tap the mana lines around them, and Galle gave them an unintentional scowl when he spotted them, shuffling towards the counter with the cold breakfast sitting on it.

Galle nodded a little to himself as he shuffled through the room. It was good to see that Arya was still willing to learn from Robin. Even if she didn’t fully trust him yet she was giving him a chance, and that was good enough.

“Morning,” he growled. “Got news from last night. Ama al-Tha has dealings with the Alvin merchant group. Should be able to get something out of them.”

“Okay, half of what you just said was an incomprehensible growl, the other half was a yawn,” Robin chuckled. “But I got the gist of it. When do you want to go and see them?”

“As soon as possible,” Galle muttered. “The sooner we’re out of this city the better.”

Robin nodded, looking expectantly at Arya.

“You can come or you can stay here,” he said. “I figure that Abdul will be more receptive to a local party, so it’s Plegians only today; the call’s yours. I’d like you to see how to negotiate, but if you’re still tired from the trip…”

Arya’s face lit up as she shook her head, smiling ear to ear at the prospect of a ‘Plegians-only’ day.

“I’ll come, too,” she said excitedly. “I wanted to check out the city, anyway.”

“Good to see you getting some spirit back,” Robin chuckled, ruffling her hair before turning to Galle. “Unlike some people. What, did you sleep in the stables? You look like hell.”

“Thank you for the confidence boost, master, that was just what I needed first thing in the morning,” Galle drolled, rolling his eyes as he poured himself a cup of water.

“Never mind, your sarcasm is intact so you’re clearly fine,” Robin deadpanned.

“I just don’t sleep well in Saiqat,” the younger tactician shrugged before draining his cup. “I’ll be fine. Are we going to have backup on today’s op?”

“I don’t think we’ll need it,” Robin shrugged. “I can wake some of the others up if you want.”

“Unnecessary,” Mari announced, appearing behind their old teacher.

Robin didn’t even flinch, simply turning and greeting her the way he would have if he’d seen her walk into the room. He’d been around Gaius and Panne for a long time now; very little snuck up on the veteran tactician.

“Morning Mari,” he smiled. “You’ve clearly got a grasp on the backup plan, so I’ll leave it to you. Good enough, Galle?”

The Plegian tactician nodded, smiling a little as he placed his empty cup back down.

“There’s no one I’d rather have watching my back,” he said. “I’ll go get my kit together. Give me ten.”

Robin watched as Galle left the room, Mari silently following on his heels to no doubt prepare her own equipment. They passed a bleary-eyed Lucina as she entered the common room, exchanging polite greetings as the blue-haired woman approached her husband. Robin stared at the empty doorway for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought before he spoke.

“Honey, you remember when I promised I wouldn’t meddle in my student’s personal lives?” he asked without preamble.

“I… yes?” Lucina answered uncertainly.

“They’re not my students any more, let’s hook them up,” Robin said excitedly. “Just like we did with Owain and Severa in Southtown. It’ll be fun!”

Lucina blinked a few times with a blank face before she broke out in a smile, chuckling and shaking her head a little.

* * *

Galle resisted the overwhelming urge to start throwing random fire spells around him as he woodenly followed Robin through the courtyard of Ama al-Tha’s base of operations. A small marketplace spread out around them, citizens of Saiqat shopping for the best deals right off the wagons that carried goods to the trading capital daily.

Unpleasant memories rose to his mind of being one of the merchants pedaling the wares, having to fight for his position in the courtyard and…

“This place is amazing!” Arya muttered from his side. “I never really went to the markets in Misayl or Themis so all of this is… ohhh, pretty…”

The girl was looking around with wide, awe-filled eyes at the commerce around her. Galle felt some of the tension in his shoulders fade watching the girl marvel at some cheap jewelry from one of the coastal villages in the west, pouting a little when Robin overtly ignored her urge to window-shop and dragged them both along in his wake.

It had been a long time since he’d seen such innocence in a marketplace. Galle found it hard to believe he’d been like that once…

He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

Abdul was a shrewd bastard, far more tight-lipped than Arin. They couldn’t just ask for dirt on one of his business partners; they would have to ask the right questions, read between the lines of his answers-

“By the Dark Dragon,” a familiar, reedy voice cursed as the trio entered the main complex. “Little Galle? Is that you?”

Galle actually cursed under his breath as Ibran shuffled forwards, wearing clerk’s robes and clearly acting as Abdul’s secretary.

“Oh, Prince Robin, it is an honor to have the Godslayer here as well, forgive me,” the old man said, bowing to the tactician.

“Ah, you two know each other. That’s good,” Robin said with a tightness in his jaw Galle wasn’t used to seeing.

“Indeed,” Ibran laughed. “Little Galle caused me no small amount of trouble when he was transferred to the Ama al-Tha branch in Misayl back when I was its head.”

“I see you’ve gotten a promotion since then,” Galle said evenly. “Congratulations, Ibran.”

_I still hate you_ , he added internally.

Arya shrunk back slightly, not missing the tension in the two older tacticians even if Ibran did.

“Well, as much as I would love to reminisce it would not do to keep Lord Abdul waiting,” the old merchant said, ushering them down a plush hallway.

“A troublemaker in your youth, eh?” Robin whispered to Galle as they followed the secretary.

“Shove it, _master_ ,” Galle muttered back.

Robin clamped his jaw tight, trying not to burst out laughing. Arya simply cocked her head, not entirely understanding the exchange between the two men.

They were led through what the merchants in Galle’s time had dubbed ‘the reception hall’, which was where a merchant lord would flaunt their wealth as much as they could. Plush carpet stretched over marble floors, and paintings and statues lined the walls. Through doorways off the hall merchants and accountants could be seen working, striking deals and negotiating. It was all a display of power in the merchant world, and Galle was as irritated by it now as he had been when he was a kid.

Robin barked an involuntary laugh as they passed a beautiful marble carving of Naga, waving off the curious glance from his students.

“Nice statue,” he commented to Ibran as they passed it.

“Yes, Lord Abdul acquired it in a private sale from an Ylissean noble quite recently,” the secretary explained.

“Oh, he’s no noble,” Galle heard his former teacher mutter with a grin on his face.

They were led through a set of double-doors carved from rare desert wood and into a smart yet still opulent office. Arya did little to hide how impressed she was at the surroundings. More paintings, more statues, more marble and fancy carpets. Galle had seen it all before, and judging by the way that Robin didn’t spare any of it a second glance he wasn’t impressed either.

“Ah, the errant Prince of our nation,” Abdul said by way of greeting. “And one of my own prodigal sons? My, this is a fortuitous day for reunions. I am a busy man, but I have never turned away a member of the Ama al-Tha family. Even one that has abandoned us for so long.”

The merchant-lord was resplendent in his robes and turban, his bejeweled fingers so covered in rings Galle was amazed he could move them. Thick golden chains hung around his neck, and his plump belly quivered every time he spoke.

“You have me at a disadvantage, Lord Abdul,” Robin greeted formally.

“Ah, yes, forgive me,” Abdul said. “I forget, sometimes, that many of my countrymen fled the desert when times became hard. I am Abdul of the Ama al-Tha Trading Company, Lord Merchant representative of the Plegian nation as appointed by Prime Minister Mustafa.”

“Yeah, and Robin appointed Mustafa,” Galle muttered.

“Now, now, let’s remain civil,” Ibran cut in.

“Just making sure we have a clear hierarchy here,” Galle shrugged.

Abdul chuckled, waddling around the massive ivory desk occupying the center of his office to lean against it facing his visitors.

“To think I missed this one’s wit,” he said, eying Galle with a cold smile.

Galle returned the smile with one even icier, and one could swear the ambient temperature of the room dropped several degrees. Robin cleared his throat to get Abdul’s attention and attempt to get the meeting back on track.

“I wished to ask you some questions about the new economy of Plegia,” the white-haired man said. “I have been gone for quite some time, and the economy was rendered almost non-existent under my father’s rule. I wish to understand how things work now.”

Arya’s reaction to the mention of Robin’s family ties didn’t go unnoticed by Galle, the girl stiffening with a quick intake of breath.

“You could easily have learned that from the Prime Minister or his Finance Minister,” Abdul said dismissively. “Why come to me?”

“Come now, Lord Abdul,” Robin chuckled. “You and I both know that in this new Plegia it is the merchant elite that hold the power.”

Abdul nodded, gauging the man before him.

“You have ties to the Annas,” the fat man said slowly. “What could I provide for you?”

“Like I said,” Robin repeated, holding his hands out wide in the universal sign of peace. “Information.”

“Then perhaps we could organize a trade,” Abdul suggested, a malicious glint in his eyes. “You see, one of the associated independent merchants that works with Ama al-Tha was murdered last night…”

Galle’s eyes widened as his breath stopped and his blood ran cold.

“A wheat merchant, dealing heavily with imported goods…”

“No…” Galle muttered.

“Named Arin,” Abdul finished. “And a young man from out of town wearing a black coat was last seen-”

“Bastards!” Galle exploded, cutting the merchant lord off. “What did you do to him!?”

Wind magic rippled uncontrollably out in circles from Galle as he clenched his fists, Arya actually cowering from his wrath as Robin tried to calm him down.

“Galle! Get a grip!” the older tactician shouted.

Galle seethed, tensing and untensing his muscles, opening and closing his fists as he glared at Abdul’s pompous face. Arin had been one of his oldest tools, and incredibly useful over the years. He couldn’t keep a secret worth a damn, but that was what made him so helpful in acquiring information, if one knew how to ask. He’d always been there for Galle, not as a tool but-

“He was my friend, dammit!” Galle thundered. “You really think you can frame me!?”

“Ah, I think the lad doth protest too much,” Abdul chuckled.

Robin and Arya spun, their backs to Galle’s as guards began to flood into the room.

“Besides,” Abdul went on, eyes narrowing to slits as he glared at the young tactician. “It’s dangerous to ask questions like that in my city, boy.”

* * *

There was a loud banging sound from down the hall, Idallia looking up from the latest reports about the shipping fleets in the south in concern. Lately there had been a lot of strange noises coming from Maris’ room, although usually they were a lot less… loud.

With an irritated sigh the frazzled merchant rose and left her office, walking down the hall to where her brother had cloistered himself in his room. As she approached four men walked out of the room, Maurice closing the door behind him as he followed them out.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he greeted politely.

“What’s going on?” Idallia asked.

“Just making a delivery to your brother,” Maurice said vaguely.

With another nod the old man pushed around her, following the other workers down the hallway to the ‘safer’ parts of the villa. Idallia watched him go before taking a deep breath and banging on Maris’ door.

“Brother! It’s me!” she called out.

There was another, quieter thud from inside before the door opened and a shirtless Maris presented himself, grinning madly and ushering her inside.

“Sister!” he said excitedly. “You have to see this!”

Idallia nodded, stepping into the dimly lit room as Maris locked the door behind her. Sitting in the middle of the hastily cleared space was a large wooden box. Maris had a coffin in the middle of his room. With a gasp Idallia reeled back, covering her mouth with her hands.

“What?” Maris asked, his brow furrowing.

Idallia silently pointed to the coffin, backing away.

“What, the box? It’s how we smuggle our arms, sister,” Maris laughed. “Look inside! Look inside!”

Idallia let out a breath, nodding as she willed her heart to stop racing. After everything that had been going on with her dear brother lately she needed to stop jumping to conclusions…

She gasped again as she saw the dark form inside the box, packed in straw. A massive suit of black armor, modelled after the usually-white Themisian style riding plate. Its empty helm stared up at the two Rommels, and the black plates were shot through with lines of red, like veins in meat.

The armor instinctively sickened Idallia.

“It’s my old suit,” Maris said excitedly. “Alvin sent it over as soon as the mages were done with it. I have to admit, it was worth sending back to them after I rushed home before.”

True, Idallia recalled her brother sending the suit back to Alvin to be finished…

“That’s…” was Idallia managed to squeak.

There was something wholly wrong about the armor, though; a sense of impending dread permeated it.

Maris laughed happily as he lifted the helm, holding it up to the weak light filtering through the drawn curtains. His face softened as he beheld the helmet, inspecting it with a grin on his face that Idallia hadn’t seen since he was a boy.

“And look!” Maris went on, reaching back into the coffin.

Idallia had to step back as Maris drew a huge two-handed sword out of the box as if it weighed nothing, made of the same black steel as the armor was coated with.

“With these Regna Ferox will be ours!” Maris declared triumphantly. “You know I think Alvin said there was still some left if you wanted me to have him make you a blade.”

Idallia shook her head, doing her best to act natural.

“N-no, brother,” she said hoarsely. “It… you are the fighter, not I.”

“Yes, I am the fighter and you are the schemer,” Maris said distractedly.

He placed the sword carefully leaning against the wall before beginning to pull parts of the armor out of the coffin and strap them on.

“W-what are you doing?” Idallia asked.

“Well I have to try it out,” Maris chuckled, kneeling to do up his greaves.

As Idallia watched her brother part of her wished to scream, to tell him to stop and destroy the foul armor, but she didn’t know why. She knew it had cost a small fortune to make, the sword alone having put her back nearly a year’s worth of profits, but the lingering sense of unease only grew as Maris encased himself in the black metal.

When at last he stood tall, sword in one hand and helm resting in the crook of his arm, he grinned as Idallia happily.

“What do you think?” he asked innocently.

“It’s… terrifying,” Idallia admitted without thinking.

Maris burst out laughing, rocking back and forth as his booming laugh echoed around them.

“Good,” he said, bending forward and pulling his helm on.

With the last piece of armor in place he spun and left the room, leaving Idallia alone. She hurried to catch up to him, his long gait having already almost carried him to the stairs.

“Brother, where are you going!?” Idallia called after him.

“To try it out.”

Idallia stood, rooted to the spot as her brother thundered down the stairs and out towards the recently rebuilt stables. As soon as he was out of sight she sunk to the ground, her knees quaking and a cold sweat having broken out on her brow.

* * *

Alvin let out a long sigh, reclining in his favorite chair in his dim study as the servants prepared dinner for him. It was a regular ritual to sit in the dark now and unwind before his evening meal, and it had been a long couple of months, but soon everything would come to a head. Now all he had to do was wait, relax and hope his scheming paid off.

“When I own half of Regna Ferox I think I’ll make a law stating that taxes must be paid in scotch,” he muttered to himself, reaching for the almost-empty bottle on his table.

He had to admit, Idallia may have been young but she had stumbled onto a good thing. And when he saw a good thing, he got in on the ground floor of it. The mages had already returned to the Academy in Ylisstol, much, much richer than they had been before they left, and everything else was in motion. Which just left Alvin to sit, wait, and carry on with the façade of his regular daily life.

“Or wine,” the merchant went on, pouring a generous helping of the amber liquid into his glass. “Or brandy, port…”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to count your chickens before they hatched?”

Alvin shot up straight, the bottle and glass both falling out of his hands.

Maris stood in the doorway obscuring the little light actually getting into the room, menacing in his full black plate armor. Breathing a small sigh of relief the older merchant sunk back into his chair, careful not to accidentally trod on the broken glass now at his feet.

“Maris,” he greeted coldly. “I’d offer you a drink, but you’d have to suck it out of my carpet.”

“I’m not thirsty,” the ex-soldier grunted, stomping into the room. “I came to thank you for your support in our little plan so far.”

Alvin nodded, visibly calming.

“It’s fine,” he said dismissively.

The older merchant looked past Maris, out into the hallway. Usually his servants would have arrived already to clean the mess. Someone would be getting a hiding once the lump of muscle and armor left…

Alvin became aware of a curious smell as Maris drew closer, a strange dripping sound accompanying his movements.

“It’s not fine,” Maris insisted, his voice muffled by the helm he had left on. “You offered the funds to buy up the industry in Silva. You offered the expertise to craft my equipment and raise my mount. And you were the one that encouraged Idallia to do away with any loose ends.”

A heavy lump began to form in the pit of Alvin’s stomach, and with shaking hands he reached over and lit the oil lamp on his desk, unveiling a creature directly from one of his nightmares.

Maris stood, his black armor splattered red with gore, the dripping sound the blood slowly running down the thick plates.

The smell was his servant’s blood.

“You know on second thought I think I’ll have that drink,” the deranged knight said in a light tone completely at odds with his macabre appearance.

Alvin gaped, eyes bulging as he desperately tried calling for his guards while Maris raided his sideboard.

“Don’t bother,” Maris grunted, pulling off his helm. “They were the first ones to fall.”

Alvin shook his head, trying to wake from this nightmare. He covered his face with his hands, doubling over as Maris advanced on him across the room. As he walked the ex-knight tore the cork out of a bottle of wine with his teeth before taking a deep swig of the drink. Alvin cowered in his chair, his mind racing.

If his guards were gone… and he’d already sent the mages away…

This was it. He desperately wracked his brain for an out, a bargaining chip, something, anything…

“I’m sorry, Alvin,” the madman said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But like you said… when something outlives its usefulness, it has to go. I’ve come too far to screw it all up now. You understand, right?”

Alvin didn’t respond, sitting in stunned silence. He flinched as the sound of steel leaving its sheathe whispered near his ear, looking up with wild, desperate eyes.

“You… you still need me!” he pleaded. “Idallia will… she’s… we are…”

“How dare you try to turn my sister against me,” Maris growled before bringing the blade down.

By the time Maris left the vineyard villa and met Invincible out front the gryphon was just as coated in gore as he was, and not a single soul was alive in the building or on the grounds.

“I think we need to find a river or something to clean up in,” he said to his mount, patting its flank affectionately before climbing into the custom saddle. “After all, we have to look our best for our dearest sister.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Okay, this is starting to get way out of hand,” Robin sighed, pinching the skin between his eyes as he felt a migraine starting. “Galle, simmer down.”

“But master-” Galle started, cutting off when Robin raised his hand for silence.

With a low growl Galle forced himself to calm down, drifting closer to Arya as Robin stepped forward.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Abdul laughed. “You taught the boy obedience! I am thoroughly impressed!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not,” Robin stated coldly. “And I have two questions for you. One, why Galle?”

“Right, because this is the part where I tell you exactly what my plans are, yes?” Abdul sneered. “Give me a little credit, Prince! If you really must know it was easy to implicate the boy to get to you. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Funny, that usually works,” Robin sighed, subtly glancing over his shoulder at the guards.

“I also know that you have been sniffing around about my dealings in Ylisse,” Abdul chuckled. “While I am grateful that you dissolved the monarchy and paved the way for my kind, you also dissolved the Grimleal, which cost me a lot of money. So if you were going to ask about my trade contacts you can forget that, too. I think I’ll just have you and the boy killed now and make a pretty slave out of the girl.”

Robin glanced up, looking almost bored as he glared at the merchant.

“What? That wasn’t my second question,” he said lazily. “I was going to ask you ‘if I managed to kill a literal dragon-god, what chance do you think your guards have?’”

The guards in question, already nervously shuffling around in Robin’s presence, actually took a step back from fear at the tactician’s confident tone.

“Stories and fabrications,” Abdul said, waving a fat hand dismissively. “There’s no way you or any others in your company could have killed Grima alone!”

“Oh really,” Robin laughed, gesturing invitingly to the guards with an open hand. “Well then, by all means, gentlemen, you heard your boss. Have at you. But remember, they don’t call me ‘Godslayer’ for nothing.”

A few of the braver guards held their ground, but the majority shuffled back even further, some going so far as to carefully set their weapons down on the ground and back away. Robin snickered, crossing his arms and grinning at a fuming Abdul through his fringe.

“I guess we know who they fear more,” he said.

“Idiots!” Abdul thundered. “Kill them or I’ll collect on your collateral!”

Robin heard a sharp intake of breath from Galle before the younger man let out a mighty roar and a green whirlwind erupted from the floor beneath Abdul. The merchant leapt back, positioning his desk between them as the whirlwind blew the guards off their feet.

“Move!” Galle shouted, taking off at a run.

Robin and Arya exchanged a quick glance, confusion at the tactician’s abrupt actions stalling them before a weak moan set Robin into motion. With a sigh he grabbed Arya by the wrist, pulling her along with him as they chased after Galle.

“Dammit, Galle, what the hell was that!?” Robin panted.

The younger tactician growled wordlessly, flicking his wrist and sending a deadly wind spell down a corridor as they passed it, the green-tinged blast of wind picking up the armed guards and throwing them bodily into a heap against the opposite wall as it blew his coat around. Robin followed, dragging the terrified Arya along by the wrist. The girl was quiet, but she wasn’t showing any signs of a panic attack like she had before, so Robin was hopeful that she would hold together.

“Galle!” he shouted, grabbing the younger man by the shoulder and spinning him around.

Galle gave a wordless snarl, glaring up at Robin from beneath his brow. The older man barely hesitated before slapping him in the face, sending him reeling a few steps. Arya gasped behind Robin, going stiff as she watched the encounter.

“You come back to your senses yet or do I have to smack you again?” Robin asked.

Galle shook his head a few times before nodding and massaging his jaw.

“Do you know what he means by ‘collect their collateral’?” Galle asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. “When a man signs on to work for Ama al-Tha they sign up their entire lives as collateral. Their families become hostages! And I’ve seen him do it before!”

Arya’s eyes widened in shock, but Robin sadly shook his head.

“We can’t help these people,” he said. “Not now, anyway. We need to focus on our own goals.”

“Master, these are our people!” Galle persisted. “We can’t just turn our backs-”

“We are tacticians,” Robin interrupted. “When I swore you in as one you gave up your ties to any one nation. I’ve drilled that into you since the day I found you in the desert, Galle.”

Robin opened his mouth to continue, but stopped himself when the sound of booted feet and shouting from the corridor behind them reached him.

“Come on, we have to get out of here,” he sighed. “This mission is a total wash.”

Robin pulled Arya along behind him further up the hall, but Galle hesitated, trying to get his bearings after years of being away from the trade building. He took a deep breath, calming himself. Arin would have laughed at him getting so worked up, the way he always had.

He didn’t have the outbursts any more… he had grown from that person… he just needed to calm down and think…

His eyes widened as he realized they had made their escape down Abdul’s guest wing, where the most important visiting nobles and merchants were put up.

“Wait,” he called. “We need to get down without using the stairs. Abdul isn’t as stupid as he looks. They’ll have blocked them by now.”

Robin sighed, releasing Arya and stomping back to Galle. The girl silently shadowed her teacher, glancing nervously up the hall behind them.

“Make it quick, Galle,” Robin said. “We’re running out of time.”

The younger tactician nodded before kicking open the closest door. It looked like a suite for important visitors, a plush bed sitting in one corner covered in silk surrounded by hand-carved furniture. Robin marveled at the opulence as Galle led them through the room, realizing that outfitting this room alone had probably cost more than all the furniture in his fort combined.

Galle stopped directly before the far wall and pulled a waist-height panel away to reveal a narrow hollow with a rope in the middle.

“We can use this,” he explained. “All of these rooms have these dumbwaiters leading directly to the kitchens. We can bypass the stairs and go out through the basement back to the markets.”

“Good idea,” Robin said, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. “It looks a little tight, though. Take Arya down first and send the lift back up. Don’t wait, I’ll be right behind you.”

Galle nodded, squatting down and shuffling into the space. Even getting two of them into the cramped dumbwaiter would be hard, but Arya was small, so they would manage. The girl hesitated until Robin gave her a gentle push in the small of her back, smiling down at her.

“Stay close to Galle and do what he says,” he said kindly.

Arya nodded, crawling into the space opposite Galle. Once she was in he released the catch and slowly lowered them down with the rope, watching Robin cross the room to quietly shut the door until the lift had gone down into darkness and the older man was out of sight.

* * *

As the young tactician Mari wandered through the markets of Saiqat she felt something akin to awe at the sights and sounds around her. Never before had she been to Plegia; she had passed through it years ago when she had first joined Robin’s school so many years ago. Always, at the back of her mind, had been a desire to explore, to see the world around her. In her homeland this was not something that was common, and for someone with her breeding to have left the capital to train under foreigners would have been unheard of before the Liberation War.

But now she was free to roam the world as she pleased; her education was finished, and after this mission she could ply her trade as a tactician wherever she pleased. She could see much, much more of the world than she ever could have before, starting here in Plegia.

If only, she thought with a barely perceptible sigh, she could be seeing the desert nation under happier circumstances.

“Was that a sigh, or a deep breath?” Van asked from her side. “I can hardly ever tell with you.”

Mari rolled her eyes at her Ylissean friend’s question as they strolled through the markets. He knew very well, after all the time they’d spent together, that she had sighed. However, she realized with a slight grin, now she was irritated at him instead of at the mission at hand. That was what Van’s strongest point was; he played the fool to redirect people’s negative emotions and increase morale, something that Mari could honestly say she still couldn’t understand about the man.

Van huffed, linking his hands behind his head as they walked.

“I can’t believe I actually miss Galle right now,” he muttered. “At least he actually communicates verbally… Even if it is mostly sarcasm and abuse…”

“Believe me, young tactician, when Owain Dark tells you that sometimes words are inadequate,” came another voice from further back. “Indeed, the fiery Severa can silence the loudest of men with naught but a glare, and- ow!”

The ‘fiery’ red-haired woman huffed and crossed her arms, having just elbowed the other man in the ribs. The fifth and final member of their team laughed and appeared between the pair, throwing an arm over their shoulders and smiling happily.

“Aw, you two are so cute!” Fae cooed. “This is why I like humans! So much fun!”

Van laughed at Severa’s death glare as Owain fidgeted uncomfortably. Fae, another one that habitually played the fool, danced between them to avoid the redheaded swordswoman’s ire and came alongside the two tacticians.

“You know, after so many years one would think I’d know better than to come between a couple…” she muttered with a grin.

Van glanced over his shoulder, flinching when he locked eyes with the moody Severa.

“Well, that couple, anyway,” he mumbled, earning a chuckle from the manakete.

Mari was only half-listening to her companions’ exchange, carefully inspecting the marketplace instead.

She was struck by just how different, yet similar, it was to Chon’sin’s market streets. Most shops or stalls were simple wooden tables or even just rugs on the dirt with the merchants’ goods spread out atop them. Everything was on display in the market, from tools, nails and the like to fine furs and jewelry being advertised as being from Regna Ferox. Mari cocked her head slightly when she saw this, wondering if the merchant knew that the people of Regna Ferox didn’t wear jewelry.

She decided it was none of her concern, passing the stall with barely a glance. She wasn’t one for pointless ornamentation, anyway.

“Ooh, shiny,” she heard Fae mutter behind her as the manakete and Van lingered at the stall.

Mari glanced around, spotting Owain and Severa a little way away at a local swordsmith’s stall. The blonde man was inspecting a dangerous-looking curved dagger, an innocent smile on his face. Next to him Severa was looking at a box of whetstones. She had to grin as the swordsmith tried pressuring Severa into buying a flimsy sword with a decorative hilt and she gave the poor man a look of utter contempt.

“You notice the funny looks some of these guys are giving us?” Van muttered, casually strolling up to her as if he was browsing the same stall.

Mari surreptitiously glanced around, feigning interest in the same stall as Van. There were indeed a few dirty looks being cast in their direction, not enough to be a worry but still enough to make Mari curious. She nodded, the movement a slight tilting of her chin, and Van gave her a cheery grin as he shrugged his coat off, rotating his shoulders in his plain travelling clothes before adjusting his old yellow scarf.

“Whoo, it is hot in this desert,” he said at his regular volume. “Here, hold this for me while I go and find some water.”

“It is probably the scarf,” Mari pointed out, playing along.

Van actually hesitated, a blank look on his face before he chuckled and ran a hand through his spiky hair.

“I think someone’s been spending too much time with a certain Plegian Tactician lately,” he said with a knowing grin.

Before Mari could give the indignant response on the tip of her tongue Van disappeared into the closest alleyway, leaving her scowling alone at the stall with his coat. The shopkeeper, a middle-aged woman who had clearly had far too little nourishment in the last few months, looked up and gave Mari a sympathetic smile.

“Stood up, huh?” she said in a heavy Plegian accent. “Ah, men. Can’t live with em, can’t live without em.”

Mari nodded, taking a deep breath to compose herself before crossing the road to rejoin the other three. Fae and Owain were watching as Severa was telling the swordsmith exactly what was wrong with his weapons, down to the finest detail, with barely hidden grins on their faces. The smith looked about ready to cry under Severa’s verbal assault, and gave a literal sigh of relief when the red-head stopped upon noticing Mari standing alone.

“In short, this is all junk and you should be ashamed,” Severa huffed, tossing the sword she was using as an example back down onto the man’s counter.

She stepped out of the stall’s shade and into the harsh sun with Owain in tow as Fae tried to console the stricken merchant, grinning all the while.

“Where’s Van?” Severa asked, crossing her arms and sinking to a hip.

“Recon,” Mari replied. “Continue blending in until he makes contact.”

“Very well!” Owain said, his grin widening as he turned to Severa. “Come, my fated companion! Let us see how many more shop-keepers you can make cry before he returns!”

“That might actually be the best idea you’ve ever had,” Severa muttered as the pair moved to another stall.

Fae approached now, watching the older Shepherds enter the shade of another stall with a thoughtful look on her face.

“You know, Severa’s kinda scary,” the manakete said after a moment.

Mari resisted the urge to grin, nodding once instead as they followed the other pair at a slower pace. As the back-up team they had to wait until they were needed, if they were needed at all. It was a game of patience, something that Mari had learned she would need as a tactician very early into her studies. She glanced over her shoulder as Van reappeared behind her, adjusting his scarf and frowning a little. He had barely been gone five minutes, but judging from the frown he had already found something. Without a word Mari held his coat out to him, which he accepted with a tired grin.

“Apparently there was a murder last night,” he muttered, matching Mari and Fae’s pace. “The last person seen talking to the victim was a young man from out of town in a long black coat. Kinda like the ones we’re wearing.”

“How’d they know he was from out of town?” Fae asked.

“Merchant city like this sees a lot of traffic,” Van explained. “The locals would know who is and isn’t from here. It’s a hot topic right now, too; I barely even had to try to find someone talking about it. This might not bode well for us.”

Mari nodded in agreement, a cold sense of fear settling in the pit of her stomach. She glanced up at the Ama al-Tha trading post towering above the other nearby buildings, where Galle and Sir Robin were currently. As they wandered through the market Mari steered the small group to linger closer to the bridge to the massive edifice.

Something was giving her a bad feeling. And if Sir Robin had taught her anything, ‘listen to your gut feelings’ was chief among them.

* * *

Arya shuddered in the darkness as the lift descended, Galle grunting a little as he carefully lowered them as smoothly as he could. The only sound in the small shaft was the older tactician’s labored breathing and the rasp of rope sliding through his hands. Arya jumped a little when her shoulder pressed up against the rough stone shaft, dragging a little against the wall with their descent. The whole dumbwaiter shifted, and Galle let out a little groan.

“Please… hold still…” he grunted quietly. “This thing… is really hard… to balance… this sucks… oh this sucks… argh this sucks so… bad…”

With one final grunt the dumbwaiter opened into a mostly-deserted kitchen, a few surprised servants looking up in confusion as Galle and Arya climbed out.

“We can’t go out the way we came in,” Galle groaned, shaking his hands out. “We should be able to get into the old storm drains that run beneath the island, though. C’mon.”

“Wait!” Arya said. “What about Sir Robin?”

“He said not to wait,” Galle said over his shoulder. “Now c’mon, keep up.”

Arya silently followed behind him, hesitating only long enough to grab one of the kitchen knives and tuck it into her belt as a contingency. Galle confidently led them to a doorway at the back of the kitchen which opened to a set of stairs. Without an ounce of hesitation he started down them, mumbling a quick fire spell and illuminating the half-empty cool-room beneath the kitchen as Arya shut the door behind them.

As she looked around the small and dimly lit room Arya felt familiar claustrophobic panic rising in her chest.

There was no way out. They were trapped. She looked at the older tactician, surprised to find him so calm.

Galle just stopped for a moment, looking at the walls before walking up to one and placing his hand flat against it. He ran the hand along the wall for a few paces before knocking on it with his knuckles. As the older Plegian did this Arya did her best to calm down and fight back the panic and adrenaline. Clearly Galle had a plan, and she would need to trust him here. She had already gone to pieces once before on a mission, and she wasn’t about to do so again on her first official one as a Shepherd. With a few deep breaths she forced the panic back down. Not dissipating it, but pushing it to a far corner of her mind so she could focus again.

“Right, this might be loud. Take a breath and cover your ears,” Galle said, stepping back from the wall.

Arya stepped back, doing as Galle instructed while he lifted his hand and drew back his sleeve, the small flame winking out and leaving them standing in the darkness. There was another momentary spike of panic before Galle muttered something Arya assumed was a spell, and with a rush of displaced air and a sound like a thunderclap the wall he’d been inspecting crashed outwards. Arya winced, struggling to breathe as all the air came rushing back into the room with a burst of freshly disturbed stone dust.

“There’s no way they didn’t hear that,” Galle coughed, waving the grey cloud out of his face. “We’ve got to move.”

The pair stepped into a stone hallway, dimly illuminated by regularly spaced torches. Every few meters in both directions there was a door, and at either end of the hall there was a staircase, one going up and one going down. Galle set off towards the one going down at a good clip, Arya hurrying to keep up with him.

“W-where are we going?” she asked.

“Down,” Galle responded. “The island is a solid rock, which they carved three floors of basements into. On the bottom one is a nifty little contraption to keep the basements from flooding. We can use it to get into the storm drains and climb back up into the marketplace. We’re also going to break it. I always wanted to break it.”

“How d-do you know?” Arya stammered, struggling to keep up with the taller man’s pace.

“Because I helped build it,” Galle grunted, going quiet.

They continued to descend in silence, Arya following nervously as Galle led them through a labyrinth of uniform stone hallways and corridors carved from the sandy-colored rock itself. So far there had been no sign of pursuit, but Arya knew that wouldn’t last. Maybe Sir Robin was distracting the guards up on the higher floors so they could escape? It seemed like the kind of thing that a hero would do…

“Wait,” Galle said, coming to a stop. “Something’s not right.”

Arya stepped forward to come alongside him and see what he’d found. Galle had stopped in front of a bricked up section of wall.

“There should have been a staircase here,” he muttered, stepping forward.

With another muttered incantation he held up his hand as a small flame floated just above his fingers, inspecting the wall. He knocked at it a few times and pressed his ear against the bricks before stepping back and extinguishing the fire. Without warning this time he pulled his sleeve back again and began chanting for his spell.

In the dim torchlight Arya finally got her first good look at Galle’s bare arm, and she let out a gasp at the sight. His forearm was covered in small black text and sigils, as if he’d copied a page of his spellbook and tattooed it onto his arm. Arya had only ever heard of people getting tattoos before, a Feroxi tradition that her own people usually scoffed at and uniformly scorned. But the fact that Galle was Plegian clearly meant that it was useful in some way. He noticed her scrutiny and grinned a little in the shadowy corridor.

“It’s easier than carrying a spellbook around all the time,” he explained.

Before Arya could enquire further Galle cast his spell, blowing the bricks back into the sealed stairwell. He gave a hiss, shaking his arm as blood began to run in a small trickle from near his elbow.

“That’s the downside, though,” he said, pulling his sleeve back down. “There’s no spellbook for the spell to consume, so it takes the ink out of my arm instead.”

“Does it… hurt?” she asked as they began to descend to the next floor.

“No, the blood’s just for show,” Galle scoffed as he walked.

They reached the bottom of the staircase and looked around another darkened hallway, Galle giving a tired sigh as he lit another fire above his fingers.

“You know, we used to keep these catacombs well-lit,” he grumbled as he started walking. “Is torch oil really that expensive these days? C’mon, the pump should be right… through… okay. Wow.”

As they rounded a corner Galle was shocked into silence, Arya following suit. The cavernous room, lit only by Galle’s spell and easily covering half of the floor they were on, was dark and stank of waste and sweat. Lined up in neat rows throughout the space were simple wooden pallets with a few rough sheets thrown about for some base attempt at comfort. The worst part, though, were the terrified expressions of the dozens of wretched and terrified men, women and children chained to the walls or ground near the rows of pallets. Thin, emaciated limbs scarred from the shackles and flesh gone pallid from so long away from the sun, fear-crazed looks at the two intruders as those chained collectively shied away from them as far as their shackles would allow…

It was a dungeon. Abdul had turned the largest storage space under his trading post into a dungeon.

“What in Grima’s name has Abdul done?” Galle muttered darkly.

Arya stepped backwards and clutched at her head, her breath coming in small, harsh gasps as her fear finally bubbled up from the depths of her mind and overwhelmed her.

The darkness… The fear…

It was like being back at the Rommel’s warehouse all over again, only on a larger scale.

They would catch her, chain her again and treat her like an animal. She could hear the laughing of the guards, feel their blows already, and see their leering faces in her mind’s eye…

It was too much for her.

“N-no,” she mumbled, shaking her head. “Not a-again… No… no!”

“Arya get it together or Grima help me I swear I’ll leave you here!” Galle snapped over his shoulder as he stepped forward.

Her tear-filled gaze shot up, eyes wide as they met Galle’s. The pain in his own eyes was enough to silence her, and with a few more shuddering breaths she grew slightly calmer, shaking uncontrollably but mostly under control as she inched toward the other Plegian, holding her arms tight around her own body.

“Someone tell me what the hell is going on here!” Galle shouted, his voice echoing around the silent stone room.

There was no response at first, but one of the people chained towards the center of the room, a middle-aged woman so thin she was little more than skin and bones, stood slowly.

“We are… property of Ama al-Tha. Slaves,” she spat. “Please. I… I don’t even care who you are. Please, help us.”

“We can’t,” Galle said emotionlessly, without an ounce of his earlier hesitation.

A smattering of disappointed muttering and more than a few sobs spread out around them before Galle spoke again.

“We can’t help you right now,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “But if we get out of here we can send help. Answer me quickly. Where are you from?”

Arya looked up at Galle, his clenched fists trembling at his sides. She’d never seen him like this before, and it was enough to momentarily distract her from her own fear.

“Does it matter?” one of the other slaves asked dejectedly.

“I need to know which kingdom to send to crush Ama al-Tha,” Galle snapped.

The woman standing nodded slowly.

“My name is Aldeth,” she said, her voice thick. “I was taken from Ylisse. A small village in the shouthlands. Many of us were. Some are from as far east as Jagen, though.”

“All Ylissean? Taken by who?” Galle asked.

“Yes. The… The Alvin Trading company,” she muttered, looking down.

“For what?” Galle snapped.

“W-whatever they wanted us for,” Aldeth stammered. “We… we signed contracts to work in the vineyards, and then they sent us-”

Every set of eyes in the room glanced up towards the barred iron door as the sound of hurried footsteps and shouting reached them, echoing around the room. A feral, predatory grin spread to Galle’s face as he went perfectly still, the air practically crackling around him. Arya had to resist the urge to shrink back from the tactician.

“Perfect,” he growled, still smiling as he started stomping towards the other end of the room.

He glanced back at Arya, motioning she follow him with a jerk of his head.

“P-please! At least take the children with you!” Aldeth pleaded desperately.

Galle snarled wordlessly, turning to Arya.

“I’ll get the keys, you take the five youngest and drag them with us if you have to,” he spat, taking off for the door again.

The guards were closer now, torchlight throwing shadows across the room as the men charged into the corridor ahead of Galle. With another wordless roar he extended his hand, a gale of green wind-scythes dancing through the bars accompanied with a mist of blood as his coat’s sleeve and the arm beneath were shredded by the release of energy. The guards not cut down by the spell were thrown back, the door following them with a wrenching screech of steel-on-stone.

Galle panted, sagging and gripping his arm as blood started to run down it at a greater rate. He ignored the panicked cries of the slaves and stomped through the guards, retrieving a ring of keys off of one of the bodies and throwing them back to Arya before stooping to retrieve one of the scimitars the fallen guards had dropped.

“I’ll secure the exit,” he said. “Just the youngest, got it? Leave the keys with Aldeth. We’re out of time.”

Arya nodded, fumbling a little with the ring of keys as she glanced around.

“Arya,” Galle called softly.

She glanced up, blinking back tears. The older tactician gave her a confident nod and a slight grin.

“I’m counting on you here,” he said before turning on his heel and stomping back up the corridor.

The girl stopped for a moment, feeling a new sense of calmness wash over her at Galle’s words. She blinked a few times before steeling herself and burying her fear, a little more prepared now.

“T-the children,” Arya asked, turning to the slaves.

“Over there,” Aldeth moaned, pointing shakily to one corner.

The young Plegian girl nodded, struggling to keep it together long enough to get the children out.

* * *

The Ama al-Tha market was in an uproar by the time Mari and her little squad crossed the bridge, merchants hastily closing up their carts and packing away their goods as guards rushed back and forth. As soon as they had reached the stone bridge it had been apparent something had gone wrong from the way the guards were behaving, and Mari urged them across with no further heed to their cover. One such guard raced up to the Shepherds as they jogged into the square, the man pale and out of breath beneath his patchy beard.

“I’m sorry, but the market is closed due to-”

Whatever excuse he was about to present was lost as Mari’s fist lashed out, cracking squarely into his jaw and dropping him cold.

“We know, thanks,” Van said pleasantly as he stepped over the man.

A squad of similarly dressed and distressed guards rushing through the market saw the exchange and hesitated before turning to confront the Shepherds.

“Spread out!” Mari ordered. “Flank them and find the-”

“Death from above!”

The Shepherds froze as a gust of wind blew downwards, kicking up a cloud of dust as a figure leapt from one of the highest windows of the towering trade-center, directly into a knot of the scurrying guards. All of the guards were thrown from their feet, Robin casually stepping over them as he dusted his coat off, grinning.

“Naga I love doing that,” he muttered.

“Master!” Owain shouted, rushing forward. “You thought to begin your assault without Owain Dark’s aid!?”

“Not by choice,” Robin shrugged.

The older tactician glanced at Mari and quirked a brow.

“Sorry to steal your thunder, but do you mind if I take command?”

“Please do, Sir Robin,” Mari said, bowing from the waist.

“Please don’t bow,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair and turning to the Shepherds.

“Arya and Galle went down,” he declared, ignoring the pandemonium of the marketplace around them. “They’re either still on the first floor, or down in the sub-levels. Standard extraction scenario. Fae? I want some noise.”

“Noise, coming up,” the manakete grinned, stepping back a little.

With a gust of wind and a burst of green magical flames she transformed, growing until she towered over three-times the size of the other Shepherds, her face elongating and becoming a reptilian maw filled with razor-sharp teeth. Giving her wings and scales a shake she sighed, a small puff of green flames escaping her maw as she did.

“Been too long since I transformed last,” Fae said happily.

“Just don’t turn the building to rubble,” Robin chuckled.

Fae nodded once, her reptilian head bobbing up and down before she took to the air with one great beat of her massive wings. Van and Owain both shielded their faces, Severa tactically positioning herself behind the blonde man to avoid the down-draft. As soon as Fae was in the air she let out a great draconian roar, followed by very human-like laughter as she circled around the trading center. The merchants and guards still in the market courtyard looked up in terror, screaming and redoubling their efforts to escape.

“The rest of us are going inside,” Robin said. “Two squads. Mari, you and Van hold this courtyard. Should be easy with Fae flying support. Owain, you and Severa are with me.”

“Sir,” Mari called.

Robin glanced back as the younger tactician pulled a smaller blade from her belt, a tanto from Chon’sin, and threw it to him. He caught it one handed and grinned, tucking it into his own belt.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll bring it right back.”

* * *

Galle grunted, leaning heavily with his good shoulder against the corridor wall just outside the pump room. Arya was inside, working carefully to remove the outer-casing so they could escape. Unfortunately, Galle couldn’t destroy it now that he knew there were people trapped down here; it would cause the entire basement to flood, probably all three floors. And he couldn’t do the work himself with just one arm, leaving him standing guard and waiting for more of Ama al-Tha’s guards to show up.

The scimitar he’d appropriated lay on the ground near his feet as he held his left arm, the self-inflicted injuries reducing the limb to dead-weight until he could get Brady to take a look at it. He was afraid to look at it, honestly; it didn’t feel like there was much arm left.

He laughed self-depreciatingly, carefully running his fingertips over the furrows left in his limb from his casting. It was meant to be a last-ditch contingency, the tattooed elwind spell, but he’d lost his temper and used it in the heat of the moment. Now not only was he going to have to wait for the arm to heal and then re-ink it all over again, he had also lost a significant amount of blood without having anything to bind the injury with.

Worst of all, he’d ruined his coat. The damn thing had been expensive, and now it was reduced to a one-armed, blood-stained leather rag.

_Should’ve known today would go this way_ , he thought with a self-depreciating chuckle.

As soon as he’d walked across that bridge Galle should have known that this day would go arse-up, but Sir Robin had turned him into an optimist. He should have known that Abdul would want to get some sort of revenge against him; the man could surely hold a grudge. He should have known that he was being watched in the city, and any old contacts would be put into danger. Hell, he shouldn’t have even been surprised at the whole human-trafficking thing. This was the direction Ama al-Tha had been heading in back when he’d left them, and that had been years ago. In hindsight this wasn’t surprising in the least.

Galle shook his head a little. No point in dwelling on things now while they were in danger. There would be plenty of time to beat himself up over it when they got out.

“How you doing in there, kid?” he called, trying to distract himself.

“I’m working on it!” Arya shouted back.

The older Plegian gave a little snort. Her voice was a lot stronger that Galle had been expecting, given her little panic attack earlier. She was clearly getting better at controlling her fear, or at least stifling it. Galle just hoped that she didn’t learn to control it the way he had, killing his emotions. Having something to focus on probably helped her to put it out of her mind.

Galle snickered a little as he turned, his back sliding slowly down the wall until he hit the floor with a pained groan, leaving a smeared trail of blood on the wall behind him.

“Urgh, I hate this damn city,” he groaned, leaning his head back against the cool stone.

The sound of rushing boots pulled Galle back to reality. Blinking himself back to consciousness and deciding not to dwell on the fact he’d passed out the tactician pulled himself back to his feet, gripping his borrowed scimitar in a one-handed stance he’d learned from Mari. The sword was poorly-balanced for the stance, but he didn’t have a lot of other options.

“Arya, hurry the hell up!” Galle called, stepping to block the doorway to the pump room.

“S-shut up I’m working on it!” she snapped.

Galle risked a glance over his shoulder. She’d almost gotten the cover off, and was struggling with undoing the last of the bolts by hand. They didn’t have any tools, so she was tackling the bolts with nothing but her bare hands; fortunately they weren’t tight to deal with the changing pressure of the water, but there were a lot of them. The children they had decided to save were cowering in the corner of the room furthest from the door, clinging desperately to each other and looking at Galle’s back with so much hope in their eyes it made the young tactician sick.

It was a lot of pressure, but he’d trained for these situations. He wasn’t the same helpless kid that stood back and silently watched any more.

“Well work faster!” he snapped back, stepping further into the corridor.

Without the spell on his arm he was reduced to mere conjurer’s tricks on the magic-front. His ruined arm was still bleeding, too. Realistically speaking he could probably hold them back long enough for Arya and the kids to get clear of the pump and seal it after them.

_Never figured myself for the heroic last stand type_ , he thought to himself as the first of the guards charged into the corridor.

Galle let his training take over, holding his injured arm close as he spun and leveled his sword, following the lateral strike with a series of spinning round-house kicks that forced the guards back out of the corridor. He stumbled a little, catching himself and hopping back before any of the guards could take advantage of the opening. Pain radiated from his arm, but Galle ignored it as he glared at the surprised guards.

He brought his sword up, parrying as one of the braver guards advanced and rained down blows on the wounded man. Galle desperately threw his wounded hand up, a small flame barely more than sparks hitting the guard in the face. With an alarmed shout the man stumbled backwards and Galle ran him through the chest.

Pain exploded through his ribs as one of the guards buried his lance in Galle’s flank beneath his sword-arm, and he dropped to one knee. With a wheeze Galle closed his eyes, the scimitar falling from nerveless fingers as the young Plegian man prepared for the inevitable.

He’d fought against his fate long enough, but in the end it appeared that Saiqat would claim him after all.

“Get away from him!”

Galle weakly looked up at the woman’s shout, numerous bodies flooding the corridor and knocking him back as the slaves, led by Aldeth, surged forward and over-powered the guards. Strong, thin hands pulled Galle back, Arya’s grimacing face above him as she pulled him towards the pump room.

With one last coughing chuckle Galle lost consciousness, marveling at the fierce look on the girl’s face. She had it when it counted, at the very least.

* * *

Galle woke again with a cough, his throat parched and burning as his eyes slowly adjusted to the weak light. Blinking he realized he was looking at the night sky and lying on some carefully laid out blankets with his coat put over top of him. His injured arm was tightly bound in thick linen bandages, red stains still seeping through at various points.

“Stay still,” a familiar, gruff voice commanded. “Ya lost a lotta blood. Yer body’s gonna be weak fer a while.”

Galle grinned, nodding once and coughing again as Brady held a waterskin to his lips.

“How long… was I out?” he managed to ask once he finished drinking.

“Most of the afternoon,” another voice said from his other side.

Galle glanced over a little, seeing an exhausted-looking Arya sitting next to him, her knees tucked up under her chin. Brady gave Galle a little shove in the shoulder, frowning.

“Kid pulled a muscle in her shoulder haulin’ yer sorry carcass up that shaft,” he said.

“You’re really heavy,” Arya muttered in agreement.

“Well excuse me for living,” Galle chuckled, slowly sitting up.

Arya moved to support him, her palm in the middle of his back holding him up as he surveyed his surroundings. The Plegian tactician’s good mood at surviving vanished as he looked around Ama al-Tha’s abandoned marketplace.

“So what happened?” he asked sullenly.

“The prisoners overwhelmed the guards while we were escaping,” Arya supplied. “A lot of them… didn’t make it. Aldeth… she was one of them.”

Galle closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. She had been brave, had deserved better than that. Now she was just one more name to add to the list of people’s blood on his hands.

“And Sir Robin?” he asked.

“The Boss and the others’re all inside, cleanin’ the place out,” Brady sighed. “Soon as he found those poor people in the basement Robin flipped his top and led the Shepherds against the guards personally. Luce’s just as pissed. Feel kinda sorry for that Abdul guy when they get their hands on ‘im.”

Galle nodded, the movement sending pain shooting up his side.

“Arya, help me up,” he said, positioning one foot underneath himself as he threw an arm over the girl’s shoulders.

“Are you sure you should be up yet?” Fae’s familiar voice asked from above.

Galle blinked in confusion at the strange, flanged resonance to her voice and the unusual direction it came from. He turned and glanced up over his shoulder, actually jumping a little at the dragon’s maw hovering about a foot behind him. Fae was perched, or rather lazing to describe it more accurately, atop the arch at the end of the bridge to the rest of the city, leaning her long draconian neck down to smile at Arya and Galle. If a dragon could actually smile.

“He’s stubborn as everyone else I treat, apparently,” Brady huffed, sitting down atop a nearby crate.

“Uh… Fae?” Galle asked, still shocked.

“Yup,” the dragon responded, grinning with massive fangs as she closed her eyes happily.

“Fae’s been standing guard out here,” Arya explained softly. “Any of the guards or servants that came out surrendered as soon as they saw her. Gaius was leading the city guard in arresting them until the Prime Minister can respond to the incident.”

Galle nodded, lifting his arm off her shoulder and standing on his own again.

“You seem pretty level-headed right now,” he said, his voice coming out a soft grunt. “You doin’ okay?”

“Too tired to deal right now,” Arya admitted with a slight smile. “W-what about you? You looked… pretty ready to die back there.”

“This city hasn’t killed me yet,” Galle scoffed. “I’d like to get out of here before it tries again, though. So who’s where?”

“Like I said, Gaius ‘nd Panne’re workin’ with the city guard to lock up the Ama al-Tha people ‘til they can figure out who’s guilty of what,” Brady sighed, looking as tired as the others. “Anna took the prisoners from the basement to her Aunt’s place. Now that yer awake I’ma head over there now and give ‘em the once over. Robin ‘nd Luce’re leading a couple of the others on one last sweep. I think Owain’s still with ‘em, and Van and-”

“Galle!”

Brady was cut off by the shout as six figures emerged from the building, Mari breaking away from the group and sprinting to where they were waiting near the arch. She slowed when she got closer, ignoring the surprised looks from the others at her overt display of emotions as she came right up to Galle, looking him up and down before carefully enveloping him in a gentle embrace and resting her head against his shoulder.

“You… are okay,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” Galle sighed, returning her embrace with his good arm. “I’m fine.”

“Oh dear sweet Naga when did this happen!?” Robin practically shouted with excitement.

“Dear, calm down,” Lucina laughed, shaking her head and grinning a little as she sheathed Falchion.

“Aw, they’re so cute together,” Van cooed.

“Aren’t they?” Fae asked, her draconian head tilting to one side in the same fashion she did when she asked a question in her human form.

Galle sighed into Mari’s hair as he felt her freeze against him, realizing what she’d done.

“Guess we can’t keep it quiet any more, huh?” he muttered with a grin.

* * *

A few days after the raid on the Ama al-Tha trading center Arya sat studying in the apartment that the Shepherds were sharing at the Annas’ trading post, looking at the words on the pages in front of her but not really absorbing any of it.

A strange sense of calm had come over her since the raid. It was hard to describe for her, but the fear that had so long been her constant companion was… while not entirely gone it was still greatly receded. Something had changed inside her during the ‘raid’, as Sir Robin had begun calling it. A feeling of confidence after surviving and escaping had settled over her. She was still quiet and awkward around the others, but… for the first time in her life she wasn’t as afraid any more. It was liberating in its own way, and confidence inspiring as well. The simple knowledge that she didn’t have to go back to the old way of life she had led-

Arya glanced up as Galle shifted on the nearby day-bed, rolling onto his side with a grunt and presenting her with his back.

He had been confined to quarters until Brady finished with his healing, the priest working himself to the bone over the last few days with the prisoners they had saved from the Ama al-Tha complex to the point where Galle had simply opted to wait until he was done with their treatment rather than tax them further.

The prisoners that Arya had helped save; Sir Robin had been adamant about making sure she fully grasped the role she had played in their rescue. It was small, but he insisted it was something to be proud of. The feeling of pride from helping someone like that, Arya had to admit, was pretty nice.

“Shouldn’t you be studying?” Galle asked, not looking up from the cushions he was facing.

“H-how can you tell I’m not?” she asked haltingly.

“I can hear you turning the pages,” Galle sighed, sitting up. “Or rather I can hear you not turning the pages.”

Arya wilted guiltily, holding the book up to her nose to hide herself and her shame from his sight.

“Hey, I don’t care, I already learned the stuff,” Galle pointed out.

Arya nodded, lowering the book a little.

“How are you feeling?” she asked quietly.

“Like I got stabbed,” Galle groaned, running a hand down his face and staring off at nothing.

Arya carefully closed the book and set it aside, getting up and walking to the small side table with a pitcher of water on it and pouring two cups. She handed one to the surly tactician before returning to her seat and studying him intently. Galle sighed, staring at the water in his cup before draining it in one go and setting the empty cup on the floor.

“We got anything stronger?” he asked deadpan.

“W-why?” Arya asked. “Are you in pain? Sh-should I get Brady and-”

“No, I’m fine, forget I asked,” Galle sighed, leaning back on the day-bed.

Galle had been through hell in the last few days. A hell which had, quite frankly, started from the moment he set foot back in Saiqat. He’d lost one of his oldest friends, he’d been injured, and his relationship with Mari had been made public knowledge.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, glancing out the window.

But for all of that he had a new sense of closure on his old life. There was nothing tying him to it any more. Abdul was going to hang for his crimes, or at least rot in some dungeon somewhere. Ama al-Tha was going to be broken up, and its assets and contracts auctioned off under the watchful eye of the Merchant’s Guild. In fact Anna’s aunt, the Anna matriarch, was supposedly overseeing the buy-out herself. Arin had received a proper funeral, and his family had been recompensed with Ama al-Tha’s blood-money. In fact, all of Ama al-Tha’s staff were being paid out and released from their servitude contracts. Even if Abdul got off, now he’d be just as poor as anyone else now.

And as a bonus Arya had even gone back and broken the pump in the trading center’s basement. When Galle had found out about that he’d laughed so hard he’d re-opened his wounds.

Everything that Galle had helped build in this city was gone now, or would be soon. There wasn’t anything tying him to the past any more.

He grinned a little as he thought of Mari, so serious all the time, probably out with Van and the others patrolling with the guards to help prevent civil unrest now that one of the biggest powers in Plegia was toppled. He glanced over slightly at where Arya was still fidgeting with her cup, clearly still awkward. But the kid had grown; he could see it in her eyes.

 “I’m… fine,” Galle said a third time, a small smile rising unbidden to his lips.

The past was behind him now, and everything was dragging him into the future, and he could finally focus on their mission to stop the Rommels.

In the distance he could see the Ama al-Tha trading center, still sitting out on the lake. But for some reason the building didn’t hold the same sense of permeating dread it used to for him.

He was free. At last, he was finally free of his past, and while the future looked busy, from where he was sitting it also looked bright.


	11. Chapter 11

As a young woman in an oversized ankle-length black coat strolled through the merchant quarter of the ancient city she took a deep breath, savouring the scent of freshly baked bread mingling with the fires from the hardware smithies and a hundred other scents.

“Lady Morgan!” one of the grocers shouted out with a wave when he caught sight of the woman. “Good morning! Want to try the latest harvest?”

He indicated down to the crate full of pears grown in the orchards in the Ylissean Southlands, the crates bearing the seal of the Southern Merchants Guild, the fruits bright and no doubt full of delicious juice. It made Morgan’s mouth water just thinking about it.

“Alright, Horace, you twisted my arm,” she laughed, brushing a lock of the long chestnut hair out of her face and stepping lightly over to the man’s storefront.

The big man laughed through his thick greying beard, holding his ample stomach as Morgan bit into one of the fruits. She made a satisfied sound bordering on ecstasy, rolling her eyes as the juice from the fruit hit her tongue.

Horace laughed louder, slapping one meaty hand on Morgan’s shoulder as she tore into her pear without a care as to who might be watching.

“See!” he called out. “My fruit has the Grandmaster’s Seal of Approval!”

“Half the market has the Grandmaster’s seal of approval!” one of the merchants across the street called back, smiling as well.

Looking around at the happy and lively faces one would never be able to tell just how close the world had come to ending a few short years ago. Morgan grinned along, pulling out her coin purse and making to pay Horace, but before she could pull anything out of it she found her arms full of more fruit.

“Here! Take it and share it with the rest of the Shepherds!” he said, smiling down at her. “Make sure the princesses eat some, too! It’ll help them grow up big and strong, just like their big sister!”

“Dammit Horace, you do this every time! Let me pay you!” Morgan laughed.

“It’s your fault for walking through the market,” the merchant insisted. “Now get out of here before the others notice you, too!”

She knew better than to argue with the boisterous man, giving the other merchants a hasty and awkward wave as she resumed her journey through the markets.

With a sigh Morgan mentally prepared herself for what happened every time she went to the palace through the markets as the other friendly merchants and craftsmen began to notice her.

Sometimes it was rough being a hero.

* * *

By the time she finally reached the palace again Morgan had been forced to remove her coat and convert it into a sort of basket-satchel hybrid to carry everything she’d been given. She loved going through the marketplace first whenever she returned to Ylisstol, but damn if she wasn’t getting sick of the hero worship that was heaped on her at times.

However, Morgan thought with a smile as two excited pairs of feet came running at her down the Ylisstol palace’s Great Hall, there were some people that were the exemption to the rule.

“Morgan!” Lucina cried, skidding to a halt just in front of the Grandmaster.

“Morgan brought presents!” Cynthia added, coming up just behind her older sister.

The grandmaster grinned as she knelt down to awkwardly hug the two blue-haired sisters around her burden. This Lucina and Cynthia, though, were the present versions of themselves, rather than the time-travelling versions that Morgan had grown up with. They were both growing up fast, Cynthia having just celebrated her fourth birthday the week before with her future self, the current Deputy-Commander of the Pegasus Knights.

“Lucina, Cynthia!” another voice called out from the end of the great hall. “Stop pestering Morgan! She’s exhausted from her trip, give her some space!”

Queen Sumia, wife of the Exalt and another of the heroes that had saved the world stepped into the hall from the passageway behind her husband’s throne, smiling happily when she caught sight of Morgan. Sumia had taken to royal life far better than her husband had, the people said. Where Exalt Chrom was the inspiring, indomitable leader of Ylisstol’s armies and defender of the realm, Queen Sumia’s gentle, caring approach to the common folk had won hearts and minds throughout the very same realm. She was said to be the perfect match for him, counterbalancing the hot-headedness of the Exalt that it seemed would never fade.

She had her hair down that day, the flowing brown locks reaching almost the entire length of her back now, cascading down over the elegant white gown she wore.

“Hello, dear!” the Queen added, crossing the space to give the younger woman a hug of her own. “How was Chon’sin?”

“Lovely,” Morgan answered, returning the hug. “Miriel will be happy to know that she was right and I’m finally starting to get over my sea-sickness with all this ‘immersion therapy’. Mom says hi, by the way.”

Sumia’s smile grew as she turned, beckoning Morgan follow her into the palace. The Grandmaster knelt quickly again, pressing a finger to her lips to shush the girls and quickly giving each of the young Princesses a sweet-bun before hefting her coat-basket and hurrying after Sumia. Grinning ear to ear, the two blue-haired girls raced off again, full of energy now that they had their spoils. Morgan followed the Queen into the palace proper, stopping long enough to hand over her gifts to one of the Ylissean Royal Family’s chamberlains before putting her coat back where it belonged.

“How have things been here?” the Grandmaster asked as she jogged to catch up with Sumia.

“Oh, pretty much the same,” the Queen said airily.

She smiled lightly as she realised that Sumia was leading them the long way, through the atrium that housed the palace’s flower gardens. They stepped into the domed space, Morgan instantly being assailed by the sweet fragrances and bright sunlight through the clear glass ceiling. Sumia knew that this was one of Morgan’s favourite places in Ylisse.

“It’s as you’ve already seen. The realm is prospering. The girls are getting bigger, Chrom is getting grumpier from dealing with politicians all day, and we still rarely receive word from Robin or Lucina. How are things in Chon’sin?”

Morgan’s smile turned wry at the mention of both her father and her old friend, but she decided to put those thoughts on the backburner to talk properly with Sumia. Her irritation at her father’s lack of communication for the last year could wait until later.

“His Grace and the Knight Commander should already have copies of the reports,” Morgan said, taking her time dawdling through the gardens. “Sei’ko went ahead to deliver them when we landed in Plegia.”

Sumia nodded, waiting for Morgan to continue.

“Things are going well, though,” she went on. “The Imperial Valmese economy is finally beginning to stabilize, which will make Mom’s life a lot easier and take a lot of stress off of Chon’sin and Chengshi’s markets. A lot of the smaller nations have amalgamated with the larger three, too, so there’s always a lot of paperwork to do. Virion’s doing well, too. Gerome is already beginning to learn to ride; it won’t be too long before Cherche brings him to Wyvern Valley to pick out his own mount. And lady Tiki has officially returned to her slumber atop the Mila Tree. Apart from that, not much else has changed.”

They stepped out of the atrium and back into the palace, angling now for the military wing and Morgan’s office.

“That’s nice to hear,” Sumia said. “I’m glad things are finally looking up for the continent. For a while there Frederick and Chrom were worried we would have to deploy a peace-keeping force. We actually had to stop Basilio from leading one personally.”

“Yeah, Mom’s really scary when people are being irrational,” Morgan said with a shudder.

It wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to say that Say’ri had brought Lord Liung of Chengshi and the Imperial Council in Valm to heel with only her glare. In fact, the majority of the border-placement discussions had wound up being in Chon’sin because of it.

They continued to talk about inconsequential things until Morgan reached her office, stopping to give Sumia one last hug before they separated and she closed the door behind her. She crossed the room, hesitating only long enough to take off her equipment belt and hang it on the wall-hook next to her ancient nodachi Sol, before sinking into her chair and throwing her booted feet up on the desk.

She blinked, and suddenly there was a small steaming cup of Chon’sin green tea sitting on the table in front of her.

“Thank you, Sei’ko,” Morgan sighed, sipping the fragrant tea.

“Of course, Princess,” one of the office’s shadows said, separating from the rest and bowing.

Sei’ko stepped around the desk to where Morgan could see her, the unassuming-seeming spy and assassin gripping a clipboard and a sheaf of papers. She was wearing the black robes of a clerk, officially employed as Morgan’s personal assistant in her capacity as Ambassador to Chon’sin. However, unofficially Sei’ko was also Morgan’s body-guard, the woman being an absolute terror in a fight. No doubt there were uncountable blades strapped to her person under those robes… Say’ri had insisted her daughter take extra protection, and Sei’ko had agreed, insisting she was getting too old to continue being a spy despite only being a few years older than Morgan herself.

“How long have you been back for?” Morgan asked, letting the fragrant steam from her cup waft over her.

“Barely two days, my lady,” Sei’ko answered promptly.

Morgan nodded, taking a sip from her tea and making a satisfied sound. She glanced over at her assistant, quirking one brow in a way that her mother always said made her look exactly like her father.

“I trust whatever’s attached to that clipboard can wait until I see my fiancé first?” Morgan asked, taking another sip of her tea.

“I can make it wait,” Sei’ko said with a knowing grin. “He is in the barracks with the others.”

“Good,” Morgan said, getting to her feet and draining the last of her tea. “What would I ever do without you, Sei’ko?”

“Waste your afternoon looking for sir Yarne,” the other woman chuckled. “I will keep Lord Frederick busy until you are done. Go and have your fun. And remember to draw up your hood if you’re going to leave the palace again.”

Morgan grinned, giving Sei’ko an appreciative wave before slipping out of her office.

After six months abroad it was good to be home. Or it would be when Morgan got her hands on Yarne’s fluffy ears, anyway.

* * *

Across the sea on the continent of Valm a man let loose an arrow at the straw target more than a hundred meters away. The black and grey fletched projectile missed the bullseye by a few inches, and the man let out an irritated sigh.

Only a few short years ago he had been among the vanguard that had slain the Fell Dragon, saving the world from eternal darkness. Now he found himself hiding in the privacy of his villa’s archery range from the incessant nagging of his court officials and the visiting envoys from other nations, unable to even hit the bullseye.

Virion, archest of archers and one of the closest confidants of the hero-tactician Robin, frowned as he lowered his bow. A shot like this should have been no problem for him. It had been far, far too long since he had trained properly.

Since the Valmese Empire had dissolved and returned ownership of the smaller countries it had subjugated back to their own lords the entire continent had been a hive of activity, Rosanne included. No more Imperial rule meant that free trade was once again possible, and the nobles were scrambling like mad to cement themselves in the newly forming hierarchy. Virion, however, wanted none of that, instead choosing to make the tiny nation his family lorded over a protectorate of the rising power in the east that was Chon’sin.

He hadn’t been alone in his decision, either; many smaller nations had rushed to Chon’sin or Chengshi, some even opting to maintain Valmese Imperial rule. The Independence War had all but shattered the economies of the smaller nations that had survived on trade when the Empire had conscripted their workers; attaching themselves to the stronger nations that had weathered the storm seemed to be the more popular thing to do.

Not that Virion was a particularly popular ruler, though. He still had a long way to go to earn his people’s trust back, even after Cherche had spent months trying to convince them he hadn’t fled for his own sake. The citizenry was coming around slowly, and that was good enough. Virion just needed to be patient.

“Wow,” a soft voice breathed from behind him. “Father, you’re incredible.”

Virion chuckled as he turned to his son, ruffling the boy’s hair as he laid his bow aside. He hadn’t even heard him approaching…

“I was once much better,” the archer sighed. “I fear I have spent far too long playing at being a politician.”

A younger version of Gerome looked up at his father with big, round eyes, nodding sagely at the man’s confession.

“But come now, son,” Virion said, practically bouncing as he stood back up. “Enough of my complaining. Why don’t you retrieve your own bow, and we’ll work on your form.”

Virion grinned as the young boy ran off towards the Villa, turning and heading to drag the target much, much closer. It had, of course, been Robin’s suggestion that the boy learn archery in addition to flying. The thought of a force of archers flying above the enemy and striking at key targets without ever coming into their range had appealed greatly to the tactician, and Cherche had leapt at the idea to get Gerome to spend more time with his father. The older Gerome, however, had refused to take up a bow, instead spending all of his time silently moping around Wyvern Valley in the south. Virion had vowed when Gerome had been born in this timeline that he would spare his son the trauma that had turned him into such a grouchy recluse.

He had to grin as he trudged out and dragged the target closer to the villa, recalling the way his friend Robin had been so unnerved at the birth of his own daughter in this timeline.

_“How do you do it?”_ the ex-tactician had asked one night over a chessboard. _“How do you just, you know, ‘snap’ and become a father?”_

Virion had shrugged as he put his friend into check.

_“We do it because we have to,”_ he had reasoned. _“I will, however, admit that we may have an unfair advantage over our future-selves. Our children have come back in time, and given us a first-hand account of all the mistakes we made.”_

Robin had nodded silently, proceeding to win the chess game in another three moves, cornering Virion’s king with pieces that the other man hadn’t moved since the start of the game.

_“I’m sure you’ll be a great father,”_ Robin had said, grinning at his victory. _“A better father than chess-player, anyway.”_

Virion shook his head, grinning at the encouragement as her returned to the present. Gerome was already running back towards him, clutching his half-sized bow tightly with a great smile on his face.

_A better father than I was in the future, at the very least,_ Virion told himself, ruffling his son’s hair again before they took up their positions.

* * *

That evening Virion checked the position of his cufflinks one last time as he marched towards the Villa’s dining room, young Gerome following at his heel as he fidgeted with his own cravat. That night he was to be playing host to one of the most powerful and influential figures in all of Valm, a veritable paragon of the common man, and the woman he had placed all his hopes for Rosanne’s future on.

As he stepped into the elegant and subdued dining room, he watched as Cherche and Queen Say’ri of Chon’sin shared a laugh, the two women obviously enjoying themselves. They both stood to greet him, though, his wife and his new Queen smiling warmly as he and Gerome approached the table. Virion gave Cherche a quick kiss on the cheek before bowing low to Say’ri, doing his best to seem sincere.

“Welcome, your majesty,” he said in flawless Chon’sin.

Say’ri chuckled a little, returning his greeting with a gracious nod before smirking at the archer.

“Your accent is still terrible,” she commented wryly.

Cherche covered her mouth, attempting to hide her laughter in the guise of a cough as she led Gerome to his seat. Virion just smiled and shook his head, showing Say’ri to her seat at his table’s position of honour.

“I fear I may be getting too old to be learning new languages, my Queen,” the archer sighed dramatically.

“Fie,” Say’ri chided. “I am not asking you to learn it. ‘Twas your idea.”

Virion winced internally as he grinned at Say’ri.

“I have had bad ideas in past,” he admitted, settling into his seat. “Such as… well, letting Robin get away with just about every mad stunt he pulled during the war.”

They all shared a laugh at that, except for Gerome who simply looked bewildered at all this adult-speak, before the entrée was brought out.

“So how is Morgan?” Cherche asked conversationally.

“She should be arriving in Ylisstol any day now,” Say’ri explained. “She is coping well with her new positions.”

“Has there been any word on what her father has been doing in the last year?” Virion asked.

If anyone would have heard from Robin, surely it would have been his daughter. Say’ri sighed and shook her head, though.

“No more than any of us,” she said. “Truly I wonder what it is that he has been so preoccupied with.”

“What of his school?” Cherche asked curiously.

“The lady Aversa is currently running it for him,” she explained. “And caring for his daughter in the interim. Fortunately he had yet to take on many students… Really, how both he and lady Lucina could simply disappear…”

“Knowing them, it was for a good reason,” Virion interjected. “They would not simply drop off the face of the earth without a purpose.”

Say’ri nodded again.

“I know,” she said. “It is just… Fie, I wish they would have come to one of us for help!”

Virion smirked, sharing her sentiments. Robin and Lucina had both vanished more than a year ago with Owain and Severa, and nobody had heard more than word of them since.

“He knew we were all busy trying to rebuild,” Cherche sighed.

“And you must admit, my Queen, that we have been busy,” Virion added.

Say’ri sighed, setting down her utensils and giving Virion a wry glance.

“I should have known better than to think you would not take his side,” she said jokingly.

“But of course!” Virion announced, a small flare of his old pomp coming to the fore. “For I, Duke Virion, archest of archers, have been one of Robin’s best friends since his induction to the Shepherds nearly a decade ago! Therefore, I also have first rights to beat the stuffing out of him for abandoning us for so long without a word.”

The three adults in the room burst into laughter again, leaving a confused Gerome to poke at his soup as he waited impatiently for the main course.

* * *

Morgan let out a piteous groan as she fell into the chair in the corner of her apartment, kicking her feet out before her in a vain attempt to get her boots off. How her father had worked like this for so long was beyond her… the reports never stopped, and there was always, always more paperwork to be done. Sometimes she wondered why, in Naga’s name, she had thought it would be a good idea to be both Ylisse’s Grandmaster and Chon’sin’s Ylissean ambassador.

With a frustrated huff Morgan blew a stray lock of her shoulder-length brown hair out of her face, growling a little when the offending hair floated right back down into place.

“Hey, hon,” a sleepy voice said from the direction of her bedroom.

Morgan’s response was an incomprehensible mumbled gargle as she bounced her heels up and down a few times. Yarne laughed a little to himself as he padded over, the half-Taguel man shirtless and clearly freshly risen from bed.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Morgan sighed as Yarne leaned down to give her a quick peck on the forehead.

Her fiancé laughed a little as he straightened, pointing to his long rabbit ears protruding from the mane of thick brown hair on his head.

“Look at these ears,” he chuckled. “The maids three floors down wake me up. But it’s worth it to get to live here with you. I just… sleep in the forest while you’re not here.”

Before Morgan could respond she let out a contented groan as Yarne squatted down and pulled the boots from her feet.

“You know you’ve been working late like this a lot recently,” he added, sinking into a cross-legged sitting position with Morgan’s feet on his lap.

“Trust me, I’m not exactly happy about it either,” she complained.

The young Grandmaster let out a small gasp, followed by a euphoric moan as Yarne shook his head and began kneading at her tired feet with his hands.

“I’m just worried you’re working yourself too hard,” he said as he massaged. “Even your father couldn’t handle the kind of pressure you’re putting on yourself. I mean, we were both there when he broke down in Valm.”

“Because he… ahhhhh… didn’t have… mmmmh… you to rub his feet,” Morgan sighed, sinking deeper into her chair.

Yarne snickered a little before starting in on his partner’s other foot.

“Yeah, let’s just say that,” he said as Morgan practically squirmed with delight.

“Ahh, if we weren’t already getting married I’d make you ask me all over again,” she groaned, arching her back as Yarne used his knuckles to rub the bottom of her foot.

“Hey, I required very little prompting to make that proposal,” Yarne muttered, his hands stilling.

“Sure, Bunny,” Morgan sighed, closing her eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. Just don’t stop rubbing yet.”

“That bad a day?” Yarne asked sympathetically, resuming his massage.

“I swear Frederick… just sees me as a target… for his irritation without my father… around for him to bully,” Morgan said, pausing every time Yarne’s hands found a sensitive spot.

“Don’t worry,” Yarne soothed. “Soon you’ll be far away from Ylisse for a whole month when the Khan-meet starts up north.”

Morgan let out a groan of displeasure a moment before she launched herself forward and practically tackled Yarne to the floor.

“But I’ll be away from you, too!” Morgan cried, wrapping her arms around Yarne until the half-Taguel could barely breathe.

“Morgan… too tight…” he gasped, slapping at her back. “Mor… gan… dying!”

“Whoop, sorry!” she laughed, sitting up and inadvertently straddling him.

“When you apologise you’re supposed to at least try to look remorseful,” Yarne sighed, taking a few deep lungfuls of air.

“Why don’t I make it up to you…?” Morgan asked, snaking her hands up Yarne’s chest as she leaned forward and pressing her lips to his.

The kiss only lasted a few seconds before she groaned and collapsed on top of him again, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I am really exhausted, though,” she laughed.

“Then why are you teasing me!?” Yarne cried exasperatedly.

“Because I’m going to be gone for a whole month again!” Morgan cried in the same exasperated tone. “And I’m tired! And my boots don’t fit and I still get seasick!”

Yarne let out another sigh before beginning to stroke Morgan’s hair. Sometimes it was easy to forget that the all-powerful, super-important Grandmaster and ambassador only had a few years’ worth of memories; one of the side-effects of which was her acting childishly in private like this. It was one of the little quirks that made Yarne love her so much, though.

“C’mon,” Yarne said, sitting up and forcing Morgan up with him. “Let’s get you into bed.”

“But I’m too tired!” Morgan groaned as Yarne lifted the limp woman up in a princess-style carry.

“Normal people use beds for sleeping, not building pillow forts!” Yarne pointed out with a frown.

“I didn’t hear you complaining when you ‘stormed the walls’,” Morgan pointed out with a laugh.

Yarne sighed, hitching his fiancé up a little higher against his chest as he carried her into her room.

“Don’t make me find Lissa and have her knock you out,” he warned her, blowing out the candle as he passed it.

* * *

In the deserts of Plegia six black robed and hooded figures strode through the dunes, the woman leading them in slightly more ostentatious robes setting a crippling pace as the five other mages struggled to keep up.

Tharja turned to cast a contemptuous glance over her shoulder, glaring at her would-be apprentices as they floundered to the top of the sand dune she was standing on.

“Come on, we’re almost there,” she snapped at the gasping student-mages.

She spun on her heel, her cloak flapping out behind her in the wind as she slid down the opposite side of the dune, revealing her signature black body-suit and golden trim. In the distance she had spotted their destination, the oasis town of Grima’s Fall that had sprung up around her new Dark Mage academy, just on the edge of the badlands.

In the last five years she had dedicated herself wholly to restoring the order of Dark Mages, taking in any student that showed even an inkling of promise in the dark arte. It had been a learning curve at first; her social skills were less than terrific, even after spending so much time around Robin and the Shepherds. However she had persevered and the five acolytes struggling to keep pace with her were her first batch of soon-to-be graduates.

She hadn’t told them that yet, though. That was a surprise for later.

“Moth-Master, w-we’ve been walking all day!” one of the acolytes called out in a timid stutter.

Tharja sighed, wishing that her daughter would hurry up and lose the stutter already as she signalled a halt in the shade of the dune.

“Five minutes,” she announced.

The acolytes, as one, collapsed. They weren’t physically exhausted, but rather mentally. This was a training exercise to improve their weight-distribution spells. In layman’s terms, it was to teach them to prolong their walking on sand spells. The loose sand of Plegia’s central desert was ruthless in the way it slowed any movement to a crawl, but over the centuries the Dark Mages had developed a means to combat that and move as if on regular ground over the loose sand. It consumed a great deal of mana, though, so Tharja was pushing her acolytes as hard as she could to toughen them up and build up their mana reserves.

Her own reserves were freakishly large, thanks to years of trying to keep up with Robin’s casting, so she had no problem with a three-day hike through the desert. But her students on the other hand…

The three men and two women all shrugged their hoods back, fanning at their faces as they sucked from their dwindling water supplies.

Noire, who much to Tharja’s hidden delight was the most advanced of the students, drank slowly, as if still afraid of earning her mother’s ire for acting improperly. The girl really did have a natural gift, and without Grima around tainting dark magic Tharja hadn’t seen any reason not to train her properly. She still carried her enchanted bow around everywhere, the one that Robin had made for her, even though she looked utterly ridiculous with a bow hidden under mage’s robes. She’d let her hair grow out now, too, and it was almost as long as her mother’s had been during the war.

The two students closest to her, the identical twin boys Asim and Lateef, were leaning back to back, holding each other up as they took turns drinking from their remaining waterskin. The only other girl besides Noire, Femi the teenage wonder-child from one of Plegia’s oldest Dark Mage families, was lying on her back, desperately sucking in air as she fanned herself with her hand. Sitting a small way away from the others was her final student Badru, already having slipped into an ancient meditative technique to help control his breathing and increase his mana recovery rate.

“I hate the desert!” Lateef groaned loudly as he passed the almost empty waterskin back to his brother.

“I’m getting used to it,” Asim sighed, before glaring back at his twin. “Did you seriously drink all the water?”

“You were too slow.”

“You are so dead!”

“Enough!” Tharja hissed, halting the two boys mid-argument.

Asim and Lateef were from one of the northern border-towns, so they weren’t used to the constant heat and dryness of the desert. They also liked to waste a lot of their energy arguing, but Tharja had watched them both work themselves to the bone dragging each other through her harsh training.

“Don’t you two… ever stop?” Femi gasped, looking up a little at them. “At least… try to act… like proper mages…”

“I’m trying to meditate here,” Badru muttered irritably.

Tharja rolled her eyes, deciding to let the acolytes bicker. They were all only teenagers anyway; Noire was the oldest by a few years now, the next oldest was Badru at twenty-one, making Femi was the youngest at seventeen. Besides, a healthy rivalry was good for Dark Mages. She knew they all considered each other as friends and colleagues, which was the best she could have hoped for. She had tried as hard as she could to quash the petty, back-stabbing nature of the old Dark Mage order.

Surprisingly Noire was the first one back on her feet, the pale and thin girl giving her mother a quick smile before she pulled her hood back into place.

“Alright, break’s over,” Tharja announced. “Back on your feet. Last one to the temple goes without dinner.”

There was a collective groan of displeasure from the students as they climbed back to their feet, Tharja having to stop herself from cackling at the suffering she was causing, settling for a grin that she hid in the shadows of her hood.

Sometimes she really, really loved being a teacher.

* * *

Later that afternoon, as the sun was beginning to set into the dunes behind Grima’s Fall, Tharja leaned against a stone column, watching as her husband gave a lecture to the younger acolytes.

“… so therefore Druidism is a form of Dark Magic, too,” Henry was saying to an enraptured audience of young teenagers. “Its roots are closer to the Anima school of magic, but uses Dark Magic to commune with nature and bend it to our will rather than the quid-pro-quo relationship of Anima. That’s why it’s considered such a high-difficulty school of magic, because nature has a very strong will to bend.”

The white-haired man glanced up, breaking into his trademark grin as he noticed Tharja watching him from the shadows.

“That’s it for today!” he announced happily. “Teacher has some… naughty things to do, so go and get some dinner from the refractory before I hex you all! Scat!”

The students scattered, cramming their scrolls and quills into their book bags as fast as they could while running from the lecture steps. The Dark Mage Academy was in an old temple that Tharja had repurposed, calling on what was left of her family’s wealth and influence after the war to lay claim to the building. The lecture area was a recessed amphitheatre off to one side of the main hall, where Henry usually held his theory classes.

The white-haired Dark Mage literally skipped up to Tharja, wrapping her in a tight bear hug once he reached her.

“’Something naughty’, huh?” Tharja repeated as Henry stepped back.

“Yeah, but they just think I meant some weird experiment or hex,” Henry chuckled. “However you and I both know that ‘naughty’ can mean a whole bunch of things…”

“I like the first option more,” Tharja whispered in his ear, leaning her body against him before dancing back out of his grip.

“You are so evil,” Henry laughed. “And I am still okay with that.”

Tharja gave him a seductive smile as she turned, swaying her hips as she began to walk through the temple’s open main hall. Henry followed, eager to be with his wife again after being apart for even a short period of time.

After the war Henry had found himself with severely limited skills in Dark Magic, as opposed to the ability he had possessed before. Tharja had thought it was something to do with how long he’d been under the Deadlord’s curse of unhealing wounds. However, his knowledge had remained intact, so even though he had all the skills of a first year acolyte, he could still lecture and focus on the theoretical parts of Tharja’s plan. He hadn’t even seemed phased by his loss of power, simply adjusting to his new role and continuing to support Tharja’s endeavours any way he could. Just the thought of everything he’d done for her in the last five years was enough to make Tharja blush happily. Not that she would ever let anyone see her like that, though…

“So didja hear from Lady older-Anna yet?” Henry asked brightly as he matched her pace.

Tharja frowned and shook her head.

“She should be here any day now,” Henry continued, undaunted by his wife’s mood-change. “Something about us ‘being important customers’ and wanting to take care of the restocking herself! Nya-ha-hah!”

“Brilliant,” Tharja ground out.

“I know, I know, you don’t like the Annas, I’m sorry,” Henry tried to soothe, stepping in front of her and flashing his big Cheshire grin at her. “But they’re the cheapest, and we’re not made of money. I’ll make it up to you and help you think of scary things to do to her entourage once she shows up.”

Tharja took a quick, calming breath before grinning at her husband again and stroking his face as she stepped past him.

“Perhaps if you’re really helpful I’ll even try a few of those ideas out on you first,” she promised, her cloak swaying with her movements as she walked towards the refractory. “But first, let’s get some dinner to build your strength up.”

Henry blinked, lingering and reaching up to touch his face where her hand had lingered.

“Well how am I supposed to eat when I’m this excited?” he muttered to himself, hurrying to catch up to his wife.

* * *

Cordelia let out a sigh as she watched the rolling countryside flashing by beneath her. She was on an important patrol mission in northern Ylisse, and she was bored. The Risen were gone, Frederick had rooted out any bandits that were hiding around the countryside after the final battle with Grima almost single-handedly, meaning her Knights had been reduced to glorified bodyguards and scouts.

Fortunately, in the last five years her order’s numbers had swelled; from ten Knights to thirty, with another forty currently still in training in little more than a year.

At Sumia’s urging the veterans of the Battle of Mount Origin were being granted the rank of ‘Whitewing’, a title that hadn’t been used since Ylisse’s founding. Each member of the squad, along with the manaketes and Gerome, all now had the symbol of white wings spread out as if taking flight emblazoned on their armour. Funnily enough, Gerome hadn’t protested the symbol being put on his dark armour before he’d disappeared to Valm. As an afterthought Cordelia had also bestowed the rank upon the Pegasus Knights’ quartermaster, Hilda, too. Hilda was the only survivor besides Cordelia and Sumia of the war with Plegia that had started events on the path to Grima’s return, and it hadn’t felt right not to acknowledge her staunch service that had continued even after she had been crippled.

Below Cordelia her wingman and Deputy-Commander, the Cynthia that had come back from the future with Lucina and Severa, let out a little whoop as she urged her mount into a barrel-roll, her long blue hair trailing out behind her head.

Usually such behaviour would have earned her a stern reprimanding, but it was just the two of them on this mission, so Cordelia just grinned and shook her head. Her best friend’s daughter was spirited at the best of times, finding fun in the most mundane of tasks in a way that made Cordelia happy she had volunteered for this mission. The younger woman’s exuberance was indeed catchy.

Cordelia urged her mount into a fast climb before swooping low just behind Cynthia and her mount Palla. The blue-haired woman, whose hair was now almost as long as her mother’s had been during the war and tied back in a neat pony-tail, let out a laugh at the obvious challenge, and the race began.

The two pegasai whinnied happily, finally free to stretch their wings again after being cooped up in the roost for so long.

* * *

“That was fun!” Cynthia laughed, stepping off Palla and stretching her arms above her head.

Cordelia nodded, dismounting her own partner and giving her a grateful pat on the flank. Both creatures headed straight for the trough that their hosts had put out for them, drinking deeply from the nearly-frozen water.

Cordelia and Cynthia both walked along the top of the Longfort to meet with the Wall Warden Raimi, who was standing waiting for them.

“Hail, Wing Commander,” she greeted.

“Greetings, Warden Raimi,” Cordelia said. “You seem to be doing well.”

The older blonde woman nodded and grinned, indicating they follow her with a wave of her lance.

“What can I say? It’s a cushy posting, watching over the Longfort during this peace,” she explained. “I just sit around, write up the occasional roster and train for the rest of the time.”

“Yeah, that’s basically all we’re doing lately, too,” Cynthia sighed.

“Are you both really complaining about the world finally being at peace?” Cordelia asked.

“Of course not,” Raimi said with a shrug. “I’m just saying that when there was unrest, things were a little more exciting.”

“It’s a nice change, though,” Cynthia went on. “It’s nice to be able to go to sleep and know that there’s a one-hundred percent certainty that the world’s going to be there when you wake up.”

“Not much heroism to be had anymore, though,” she muttered under her breath.

“Really?” Raimi asked as she ushered the two women into one of the watch-houses on the wall. “Word has it that the tactician’s gone and disappeared on some great heroic quest.”

Cynthia winced, glowering as she fell into a seat at the simple table in the watch house.

“And he invited Owain instead of me!” the blue-haired Pegasus knight complained loudly. “I’m every bit as heroic as my cousin is! It isn’t fair!”

Cordelia cleared her throat, giving the girl a short glare that shut her up. The Wing-Commander turned back to a chuckling Raimi, grinning softly.

“That’s actually part of why we’re here,” she admitted, spreading her hands a little.

“Yeah, Khan Flavia thought as much,” Raimi sighed, pushing a bundle of papers, each bearing the Khan’s signet stamp, across the table towards Cordelia and Cynthia.

“These ought to keep your Knight-Commander happy. Oh, and Khan Basilio wanted me to pass on the message that the next Khan-Tournament is coming up soon. Something about ‘wanting his bloody palace back’.”

Cynthia let out a very unladylike snort as she burst into laughter, Cordelia just shaking her head and grinning at the old Khan’s utter lack of grace.

“I’m sure not just Exalt Chrom, but most of the Shepherds will be overjoyed to hear that news,” Cordelia said, lifting the stack of papers.

The saffron-tressed Wing-Commander knew that she, at the least, was excited by this news. It had been far too long since she’d had a real challenge, and the tournament to decide who was going to be reigning Khan-Regnant would be the best place to find one. Even Frederick would be excited by this news!

* * *

In northern Regna Ferox the seasons changed quickly. Summer gave way to a short Autumn, which in turn became a lasting Winter that saw snow cover the land for almost six months of the year. Life was hard, and without the regular delivery of supplies to many of the northern villages from the Anna merchant group, life would be almost impossible.

And it was in this unforgiving land that Robin had opened his school for tacticians.

Much to his adopted sister Aversa’s dismay, he had even chosen to open it in a drafty old fort. However that fort was gone now, and the new one was bigger, sturdier and stronger than ever; a gift from the various nations that owed her brother for his service. Although really, the entire world owed Robin for his service.

In the evening as the mage-instructor and acting Headmistress of Robin’s school desperately wrapped herself in blankets next to a fire, Aversa frowned at the fireplace. She was sitting in what would eventually be Robin’s office/study, the one she had commandeered while he was on his little ‘mission’. And, to make matters worse, in her arms was the tiny form of her four-year-old niece that was having trouble sleeping.

_I will kill him_ , Aversa promised herself, shrugging her shoulders in an attempt to cover her neck properly without disturbing the child’s rest.

_When he gets back, and I can offload this child on her mother again, I will kill Robin with my bare hands._

Unlike during the Ylissean-Plegian war nearly a decade ago now Aversa’s thoughts held no malice towards her brother. Just annoyance at playing nursemaid. They had admittedly grown closer in the last few years, despite their clashing personalities. Robin was just the sort of man that wouldn’t give up on something once he set his mind to it, and Aversa had just had to accept that fact.

“Auntie Aversa…?” 

The sorceress sighed and broke her cocoon of warmth to run a hand over her niece’s cobalt hair.

“Are you ready to go back to bed yet, child?” she asked in a bored voice.

The little girl shook her head.

“It’s cold,” she complained in a small voice.

“I should hope so,” Aversa scoffed. “It is snowing outside.”

“It’s always snowing outside,” the little girl complained.

The young girl, the spitting image of the older time-travelling Morgan, pulled the blankets tighter around herself as she spoke, uncovering Aversa’s shoulders.

“That is because your father is apparently fond of the snow,” Aversa drawled, shuddering as the frigid air caressed her skin.

Since her blanket had been commandeered she made do with pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders instead. Aversa had long ago traded her more revealing desert clothes for the subdued robes and cloak of a simple Dark Mage. It had been stuffy at first, but she had grown used to it. The trade-off was that she could maintain her hair without changing its colour, because she could simply draw up the hood in her rare public appearances.

“Why do you think Dad likes the snow so much?” the little girl asked after a thoughtful pause.

“Because he hates the desert,” Aversa said lazily. “He is a man of extremes.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means he likes things cold rather than hot. Soft rather than hard. Old rather than new. He does not look for the thing in between.”

The little girl’s face scrunched up for a few moments as she thought about this.

In four years Aversa wasn’t ashamed to admit that little Emm had kept her guessing, and impressed her immensely. As much as she hated to admit it, Robin was smarter than her. There was simply no arguing that point; Robin was smarter than most anyone. However, to Aversa it looked like the little girl currently trying to comprehend her aunt’s example would eventually leave even Robin in the dust. At almost five years old now she was far more advanced than Aversa had ever seen in a child.

It was one of the things she was looking forward to rubbing in Robin’s face when he got back: _“Oh, look how much your daughter has advanced under my tutelage compared to yours! You’re hardly fit to be a teacher, let alone a father!”_

Then she would laugh, and Robin would say something snarky about her still being a war-criminal, no doubt followed by some sort of-

“So, does that mean Dad likes Morgan more than me?”

If Aversa had been drinking anything she would have spit it out at the absurdity of the question. As it stood she still burst into laughter, rocking back and forth as the child frowned at being jostled from her comfortable position by her aunt’s antics.

“Oh child, trust me when I say that it’s sickening how much your father loves you,” Aversa said at last, wiping a tear from her eye.

That was another thing that the child did to her; she constantly made Aversa laugh, infuriatingly enough just like her father did.

“But… you just said Dad likes old stuff more than new stuff,” the girl insisted. “If… if he does, then wouldn’t that mean he’d like the old Morgan more than me?”

Aversa shook her head, still chuckling a little as she smoothed the child’s hair.

“Yes, that would be a sound argument,” the older woman agreed. “If, in fact, your name was Morgan, too.”

Emmeryn looked up at her aunt with wide eyes, the mark of Naga shining in her left eye the same as her mother. After a moment of looking into Aversa’s eyes with her piercing blue gaze the girl’s face softened into a smile. Satisfied now, she spun back and snuggled into Aversa’s lap again, hitching the blanket around her shoulders properly once more.

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” Emm, the child’s preferred nickname, agreed.

Robin had confided in Aversa that, even though his daughter was still technically ‘Morgan’, without Say’ri as the mother it felt somehow wrong to give her the same name. After some serious thought Robin and Lucina had settled on naming her after Lucina’s late Aunt, the previous Exalt who had sacrificed herself to end the war with Plegia before it even began.

“You’re really smart, Auntie Aversa,” the little girl added with a yawn.

“Yes, be sure to tell your father that when he gets back,” Aversa sighed. “But for now, I think it’s time for you to go back to bed.”

Emm let out a piteous moan, pressing herself further into her Aunt’s stomach.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” she pleaded, looking up at the older woman with those big, wide eyes again. “I miss Mom and Dad…”

Aversa sighed, massaging the bridge of her nose before sighing again.

“Very well,” she conceded. “But this is the last time.”

Emm let out a victorious sound, hopping up and almost yanking Aversa with her because she had forgotten that the blanket was wrapped around them both. The older woman shrugged the blanket over her head, wrapping Emm in it and giving her a small nudge towards the door with her foot. With a wave of her hand and a small wind spell Aversa extinguished the fire, following after the child.

“I could have done that,” Emm complained, looking at the dead fireplace.

“I know you could have,” Aversa said with a smirk. “But sometimes your Auntie needs to remind you she’s actually a powerful sorceress. Not just your hot-water bottle.”

“I knew that already, too!” Emm smiled, grabbing Aversa’s hand. “And yeah, I’ll tell that to Dad when he gets back as well.”

Aversa smiled as she let Emm pull her along, careful not to let the girl actually see her smiling.

“You’re learning well, child,” she said with a small laugh.

* * *

Chrom resisted the urge to grin as a frazzled Lissa shuffled into the main parlour of the Royal Apartments, falling into the reading chair opposite him with an exhausted sigh.

“Now I know why they call it the ‘terrible twos’,” she groaned, looking over to her brother. “How did you and Sumia deal with it?”

Chrom lost the battle with his facial muscles and broke into a wide grin, shaking his head and chuckling at his sister.

“Honestly, Sumia did most of the work,” he admitted. “I think Little Lucina was a little less excitable than Owain by far. Where’s Lon’qu, anyway?”

“He’s off doing some important Ambassadorial thingy in Regna Ferox,” Lissa groaned. “If I could let Owain loose on his father right now, I would.”

“That’s right! Ah, a shame,” Chrom said, feigning disinterest.

Lon’qu had officially taken on the role of Ambassador for Regna Ferox the previous year after four years of playing the part unofficially. The dour man was apparently a terror to behold in regional representative meetings, if what Lissa said was true. It probably didn’t help matters that he still insisted on wearing his sword everywhere. Even Chrom opted to leave Falchion in his armoury most days, now, and the Shield of Seals was safely enshrined in the mausoleum beneath the palace again, the gemstones split back up among the nations of the world where they belonged.

“What about Cynthia?” Lissa asked desperately.

Chrom winced, going back to hiding behind the sheaf of reports in his hands.

“I… don’t like to talk about it,” the Exalt muttered darkly.

It was Lissa’s turn to laugh now; both Owain and Cynthia pairs were inseparable, meaning a lot of their quirkier personality traits carried over. Of course, it didn’t help their parents that both children had ridiculous amounts of energy, too, or that their future selves seemed insistent on turning their younger selves into clones of themselves. Cynthia was already desperately trying to rope Lucina into becoming a member of her new ‘Justice Cabal’.

“I wonder where they get it from?” Lissa asked absently, letting herself relax a little more. “I mean, we were a lot more… subdued than that at their age, right?”

Chrom nodded, sighing and giving up on pretending to read Frederick’s meticulous reports.

“I think Mother and Emmeryn were both a calming presence on us,” he guessed.

“Yeah…” Lissa agreed, lapsing into silence before perking up again. “But what does that say about us as parents?”

“That we’re a lot more fun?” Chrom asked with a shrug, earning a chuckle from his sister.

“Besides,” he went on after a moment. “We’ve both seen how good a job we did raising our kids. Kind of takes the pressure off, right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Lissa agreed half-heartedly.

“I could pull some strings and get Lon’qu back early,” Chrom offered.

“Really!?” Lissa asked, perking up in her chair.

“Why does everyone keep forgetting that I’m the Exalt?” Chrom laughed. “Robin did say that I don’t abuse my authority enough last time he was here.”

Lissa nodded excitedly before her face fell and she let out a sigh, sinking back into her chair.

“It’s only another couple of days,” she groaned. “And it sounded like a pretty important meeting. Apparently they’re planning the next Khan-meet already.”

They sat in silence again after that, staring into space. Chrom began to feel himself nodding off, and just as he was about to get up and excuse himself for bed, Lissa said something that cut through the fog of his fatigue like a knife.

“Hey,” she ventured tentatively. “Do you… miss the old days? Like, when we were all together, in the barracks and on the road? When… Emm was still alive? And Robin was still here with us?”

Chrom looked at his sister, taken aback by the far-away look in her exhausted gaze for a moment before breaking into another grin.

“Are you asking if I miss marching and the thought of a giant dragon destroying the world?” he asked jokingly.

“You know what I mean,” Lissa huffed. “Why do I even try talking to you…?”

Chrom laughed, pretty sure he saw Lissa turn her head to hide the grin on her own face. She could act like an adult, but she was still the same sister he’d always known.

“I do,” he admitted at last when he stopped laughing. “I miss our old life. But that’s what life is, sis. Robin said it best when he left.”

“’Life is just a series of greetings and farewells’,” Lissa chuckled, quoting the Shepherds’ former tactician. “He said that the night before he left, right? Lucina also promised that it wasn’t goodbye forever… I wonder where they are right now?”

“Knowing Robin and Lucina?” Chrom scoffed. “They’re probably up to their necks in trouble and are being too stubborn to ask anyone for help. Then, they’ll show up when everything blows over all smiles and laughter, just like they always do, telling us more stories of their adventures while we pine for the road again.”

Chrom leaned back into his chair, grinning into the fireplace as his thoughts turned to his eccentric amnesiac tactician and his daughter that had come back from the future to save humanity from destruction. An odd pairing, if ever there was one, but one that had his full support. Chrom loved his daughter, no matter what time period she was from, and Robin was like his brother. They were family.

The Exalt ran a hand through his hair, letting out another sigh.

For all his forced cheer, though, he was worried about them. They had gone silent after the school had been destroyed, not contacting anyone for aid. A few others had joined them, apparently, and judging from Frederick’s last report Robin had a sizeable group traveling with him now, including a number of Shepherds. However, Frederick’s people had lost the group at the Plegian border when they had disappeared once again, becoming lost in the sand-dune sea of Plegia.

“It’s frustrating that he didn’t come to us for help,” Lissa grumbled.

Chrom scoffed, running a hand through his hair as he sat up a little straighter.

“I’m sure a lot of people feel that way right now,” the Exalt chuckled.

The Shepherds were a family, in more than one sense of the word. Any and all of them would have jumped, had Robin said the word. Nations’ armies would have marched. That was the strength of their bonds. But that was no doubt why Robin wasn’t involving the others; knowing his old friend, the tactician was afraid of causing another war so soon after they had finally found peace again.

“What about you?” Lissa huffed.

Chrom started, snapping out of his reverie before he shrugged, grinning self-depreciatingly.

“At this point, it probably helps him most to just stay out of their way. If they need help, they’ll ask. All we can do is wait and be ready when the call comes.”

Lissa sighed, sinking a little deeper into her chair, her head lolling to one side in exhaustion.

“C’mon, sis,” Chrom chuckled again. “You’re too old for me to carry you to bed. Go get some rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way back at the end of 2014 when I first started posting this story online the majority of this chapter was the original prologue. The original version of this story had pacing and structural problems like mad...


	12. Chapter 12

As Robin’s little group of Shepherds tromped through the badlands of northern Plegia, en route to the small Dark Mage village of Grima’s Fall, the tactician let out a small sigh. His shoulders sagging beneath his ever-present coat under the blistering and relentless heat of the desert sun.

It was a common misconception of those born outside the desert that it was simply one giant sand-dune sea. The area that the Shepherds were currently travelling through was one of hard packed dirt, cracked and flaking due to the lack of moisture. A few hardy shrubs and twisted, stunted desert trees dotted the reddish-brown landscape, and lizards and scavenger birds were plentiful in the arid environment. Most other creatures had evolved to be nocturnal, burrowing or hibernating through the long, hot daytime hours.

The desert was, in its own way, just as full of life as Ylisse’s pastures and mountains or Regna Ferox’s forests. One just had to know where to look for it.

“It’s so damn hot in this country,” Robin groaned, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

“You are still the worst Plegian ever,” Lucina chuckled from his side.

“No, he’s right,” Galle panted from behind them. “The heat sucks.”

Arya nodded silently from next to the older Plegian, her face empathetically agreeing with the two men’s statements as the small knot of students and former students walked by the cart Robin was dawdling next to. Galle was up and moving again, which was good given the state of his injuries. His arm was still wrapped in bandages and being held to his chest in a sling, but Brady assured Robin that the younger man had suffered no permanent injury, or even permanent scarring. Which meant that Galle was already pestering Anna to try and track down some Feroxi inking ingredients to put the spell-tattoos back. Arya was being slightly more open and confident, and stammering less, too, which Robin was happy to see. Even the stoic Mari was acting a little friendlier, especially around Galle.

“Will you stop looking at the students like they’re your children?”

Robin glanced over his shoulder at the familiar huffy tone, Severa crossing her arms as she frowned at him. Lucina and Owain were at either side of her, Owain seemingly lost in his own little world as he scribbled in a small book, while Lucina smiled and shook her head.

“Hey, I used to look at you lot like this, too,” Robin said defensively.

“It’s true, he did,” Anna piped up from atop her cart.

Severa sighed, shaking her head as Lucina chuckled a little.

“He’s always been a very proud teacher,” she said.

As Lucina spoke she moved forward a little, taking Robin’s hand and walking alongside him. It was a welcome sensation, the soft leather of Lucina’s fingerless glove in Robin’s hand, her fingers entwining with his own. Even if the heat did make the contact almost unbearable, Robin chose to savor it. Even now, after all these years, Lucina still wasn’t one for overt displays of affection, yet Robin had noticed that recently the swordswoman had become more clingy, seeking his company and initiating physical contact more and more frequently. And Robin knew exactly why, because he felt the same way. They both missed their daughter.

Severa sighed again, linking her hands behind her head as she kept pace with the couple, leaving Owain to shuffle along as he wrote, following behind.

“He’s not going to trip on anything, right?” Robin asked, glancing over his shoulder.

The red-headed woman scoffed, glancing back for a second as well.

“He hasn’t so far,” she said, a note of admiration in her voice. “I’ve seen him walk through a thick forest with his nose buried in that book, dodging trees and stepping over rocks as high as his knee without even looking.”

Robin made a thoughtful sound as they walked on, Severa blushing a little.

“N-not that I’m praising the idiot or anything!” she cried. “I’m just saying he’s done it before and-”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Robin chuckled.

“It’s so cute when she does that!” Anna laughed. “I could probably charge people to watch! I’d make a killing…”

Severa’s blush intensified as she huffed again and crossed her arms, pouting and turning away from the other Shepherds.

“You choose the strangest things to worry about,” Lucina added, a note of laughter in her voice.

“Not you, too…” Severa groaned, blushing up to her ears.

Owain chose that point to clap the small book shut, jogging a little to catch up with his perpetual grin on his face.

“Sorry! I needed to write that down! I miss anything?” he asked innocently.

“Idiot!” the red-faced Severa cried.

With her shout she smacked the blonde man in the back of the head before pouting again and walking faster to put distance between herself and the others as they burst out laughing. Owain grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head as he took his ‘fated companion’s’ spot next to Lucina.

“Was it something I said?” he asked.

“I would not worry, cousin,” Lucina assured him. “You know what she can be like.”

“Aw, she’s so cute when she’s embarrassed,” Anna laughed.

“Isn’t she?” Owain asked, somewhat dreamily.

The others began to laugh again, Severa turning on her heel to glare at them in the distance.

* * *

A soft, persistent dripping sound woke Clarus. With a groan he lifted his head from the desk it was resting on, blinking tired eyes in an effort to focus them. Before him was the familiar chained form of Galuc, crumpled on the floor, and around him was the cluttered mess of his lab.

He had fallen asleep at his desk again, then. It had been happening more and more recently. He hated to admit it, but the mage was unable to truly rest unless he was in the presence of the black ore now.

A small lump of the stuff was on the corner of his desk, and Clarus reached out with bloody fingers to feel its cold, rough edges. Rolling it around on the desk with the tips of his fingers, Clarus used his free hand to cast a small fire spell and light the candles.

Once, the macabre sight of his lab had sickened him. Now, looking around at the blood-stained floor and the disgusting mess that was old, abandoned books and dirty plates and utensils piled high in every corner did nothing to elicit a response for him. Even the flies and maggots had stopped irritating him; they left him and Alvidian alone.

Poor Galuc, however…

The boy groaned, the chains securing him rattling as he shifted on the ground.

His skin had taken on a pale, greyish quality and deep red lines, like the veins on the pieces of ore, had risen on it. His eyes glowed a faint red, matching the trails of blood that leaked from his ruined mouth; a mouth that Alvidian had been forced to stitch shut to stop his screaming. At first the boy had struggled, trying to keep the flies off of him, but that had only lasted so long, too.

It had been weeks now, since then, and Galuc was sustaining himself almost wholly on the power of the ore, and what little water he could suck through a straw.

The wreck of Clarus’ former apprentice stirred, shifting a little with a soft chiming of chains clinking together and rubbing against the cold stone floor.

It was simply easier for Clarus to disassociate the thing before him from the bright young mind that had once been his apprentice.

“I wonder,” he muttered, absently fiddling with the ore. “What would this do to a willing recipient?”

There was no answer from the broken, half-naked form on the ground.

Of course, Clarus thought to himself, Alvidian would probably jump at the opportunity to use the ore on himself, to take it in and become one with it. But if the results were the same as with Galuc, and Alvidian was left broken and useless, too, then…

Clarus’ eyes widened as his dry lips split into a smile, chuckling with the realization that there was already a willing subject melding with the ore.

“The Rommel bastard…” Clarus continued to chuckle, rising to his feet.

He ignored Galuc flinching at the noise as he pulled on his robes from where he’d thrown them over the back of the closest chair. Alvidian could continue their work here; he knew how to activate and deactivate the wards, how to strengthen and maintain them, and most importantly he knew the order of experimentation and documentation that Clarus was still performing on Galuc.

He would leave Alvidian in charge of the lab for a few days.

Clarus had to make a visit to Themis.

* * *

That night Robin’s Shepherds chose to make camp near a small, trickling creek along a rocky riverbed. The camp sprung up like usual, the usual routines taking over as Robin sat near the campfire after dinner, staring absently at the flames and debating his next move.

Three of the five merchants of the Southern Council were dirty. This was officially beyond the level he could deal with alone now. Ama Al-Tha was corrupt, trading in slavery. The Alvin Company had been facilitating them, possibly lying about the taxes they paid to Chrom, and a number of other little crimes that really added up at the end. The Rommels, well, they were the whole reason he was in this mess, the tip of the iceberg. There were no ties yet to the Chon’sin merchant, Mar’kale, but anything that he did would be Say’ri’s problem. Or rather, the man would wish that his crimes were Robin’s problem, knowing her sense of justice.

At this point it was safe to assume his only ally among the Southern Merchants was Anna’s Aunt, the matriarch of the Anna family. If she was anything like the Annas that Robin had met in the past, there was no way she would condone shady business dealings or slavery. According to Anna her Aunt was already ahead of them in Grima’s Fall, too, which was a plus. Something about organizing the resupply of the Dark Mage academy personally, because it was too big a job to screw up. As such, he’d sent Kowrowa ahead to relay a message to her, asking for a meeting, but…

The plucky red-headed merchant in question practically fell into a sitting position at his side, grinning at him over her rough-looking tin mug of post-dinner tea. The fragrant liquid filled the air around them with a pleasant aroma of leaves and flowers, no doubt some strange herbal concoction mixed into the tea leaves.

With a pang, Robin realized that the scent reminded him of his friend Virion.

“Heya,” she said, taking a sip.

“Evening,” Robin muttered, still glaring at the fire. “Think your Aunt will help us?”

“Ooh, straight to the point,” Anna giggled, positioning her index finger in her trademark pose. “No small talk first?”

Robin sighed, facing her with a grin and a quirked brow.

“Okay, okay,” she sighed. “Stop worrying. Let’s just put it this way: If I’m steamed at the way my fellow merchants have been acting, do you really think she’ll be able to sit on her hands?”

Anna frowned, possibly for the first time since the war with Grima ended.

“We had a lot of little dealings with them,” she explained. “A lot of our merchants, and even my sisters and cousins, moved a lot of stock for all three of them. If it turns out that any of our people are guilty of collaborating… well, there’s nothing scarier than an angry merchant.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Robin chortled. “I’m getting chills right now.”

Anna smirked before looking at him innocently.

“Who, me?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes. “I’m not even slightly miffed, Robin! Mildly perturbed, maybe…”

“Okay, stop the flirting before Lucina sees you,” Robin laughed, leaning back.

Anna let out a little sound somewhere between a squeak and a strangled gasp as her head whipped around, looking for the blue-haired swordswoman. Once she was sure she was safe, Anna let out a sigh, casting a sidelong glare at Robin before slipping back into her bubbly merchant persona.

“You know my Aunt doesn’t have an army, right?” she asked. “A couple of mercenary contracts, maybe, but…”

“It’s fine,” Robin shrugged. “Fortunately, we know quite a few people with armies. I just need to get to Grima’s Fall and borrow some of Henry’s crows to get word out to them.”

* * *

Clarus wrinkled his nose as he walked down the main street of Themis’ merchant quarter, his hood pulled low as he attempted to ignore the shouting of the various peddlers whose stalls lined the street. Many of the elite Ylisseans, especially those from the capital, found the border city-state to be a rather loathsome place considering the strife and disorder that the city had become known for after the war. It was a city that Clarus often let his apprentices go to, if he needed something there. But this was important; he could not trust Alvidian to properly do this alone.

Plus, to make matters worse, the entire city stank of horse.

The mage felt his foot slide slightly and sighed, closing his eyes as he tried to shake the horse droppings off his boot.

“I hate this damned city,” he muttered to himself.

With an ever-deepening frown he continued, coming up short again as a pair of merchants rushed up from a nearby stall. Clarus glared at them beneath his hood, but they didn’t take the hint. Feeling his patience at its end the mage cast a small fire spell at their feet, the shocked merchants yelping and leaping back in surprise. Their shock gave Clarus enough time to slip into the flow of the crowd, his head low as he trudged along.

A faint headache was starting at the back of his eyes as he wondered to himself why he hadn’t just cast the spell on the merchants, instead. The rest would have taken the hint, and the crowd would have parted for him, too…

Shaking his head vehemently, Clarus clamped down on his violent tendencies. He wouldn’t lose himself to rage now, of all times. That he had so brazenly cast a spell within the city like that was bad enough.

He had noticed, too, that Alvidian had become more aggressive of late, especially where Galuc was involved. Clarus was hesitant to blame the strange ore, but if that was the case he needed to maintain his faculties long enough to prove that the ore was harmful, and think up a countermeasure.

Clarus stopped again, blinking a few times before realizing that he was already standing before the Rommel’s trading post at the center of the marketplace. Inside the receiving dock and entrance Clarus could see that the building was a hive of activity, an organized chaos totally alien to him. Men unloaded carts with speed and vigor that he could only recall having in his distant memories, while foremen shouted orders or argued with traders about pricing for goods. Clarus felt his face darken again as he stepped forward, mentally preparing himself to deal with said chaos.

As he approached a frazzled-looking clerk glanced up from her clipboard, giving him a quick once-over before recognizing his profession and rushing over to him.

“Milord Mage,” she greeted. “What can house Rommel do for you?”

“I’m here to see your master,” Clarus said evenly, the scowl never leaving his face.

The clerk nodded, stepping back with a bow.

“Please, sir, wait here,” she said, indicating to a clear side of the receiving dock.

Clarus nodded, shuffling out of the way as the clerk raced off. Mages were rare since the wars, so when one came calling most businesses would go out of their way to accommodate them. The Mages Academy had direct funding from the Exalt and House Ylisse, after all, so they were clearly powerful allies for any organization to have. It was another of those little things that Clarus had become used to in recent years, and he thought nothing of it anymore.

The mage scoffed a little to himself as he waited, wondering if he really was meeting with allies here given the way that the Rommel knight had acted at the Alvin vineyard.

After a few more moments of waiting and watching the frantic activity around him the clerk reappeared, another man in clerk’s robes following her clearly from one of the Western Kingdoms. This man was also clearly the senior of the two, though, judging from the way he held himself and the deference that the woman showed him; Clarus had seen the man’s like in the Mages Academy numerous times, confident and self-assured.

The frazzled young clerk bowed again before retreating, leaving Clarus alone with the newcomer.

“Milord,” the man said, bowing. “My name is Hin’rath and I am at your service. To what do we owe this unexpected honor?”

“I must meet with your master,” Clarus said simply. “It is quite urgent.”

“I understand,” Hin’rath said, raising his head. “However the Lady Idallia is a very busy woman, and appointments must be made-”

“She will see me,” Clarus insisted. “We are known to each other. Remind her of the time we spent together at the Vineyard in the south, and she will see me.”

Hin’rath’s face took on an unreadable quality, a slight annoyed smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth that didn’t go unnoticed by Clarus. Once again the older man felt his irritation rise and begin to burn into white-hot rage, but before he could explode the clerk nodded and stepped back, indicating that Clarus follow him.

“Very well, milord,” Hin’rath said. “Please, follow me.”

Clarus relaxed a little as he fell into step with the smaller man, allowing himself to be led through the receiving dock and into the villa itself. They passed through a number of utilitarian servants corridors before finally emerging into a more respectable part of the villa. Hin’rath held open a door leading into a corridor totally at odds with the bare stone and timber servants’ passages, plush carpets underfoot and beautifully finished wood paneling covering the walls.

“I would have preferred you come from the main entrance,” Hin’rath said conversationally as they started walking again. “It would have spared you the discourtesy of using our servants’ corridors.”

“A corridor is a corridor,” Clarus snapped. “I am not some haughty merchant and I care not for the finery and pomp.”

“My apologies, milord,” Hin’rath said over his shoulder.

Clarus ground his teeth as he was led up a flight of stairs, past sconces occupied by paintings and sculptures. Why the elite class always needed to parade their wealth was beyond him, but Clarus had been born poor and crawled his way up to a position of repute in the Mage world, so he doubted that he would ever understand nobles and merchant elites with more money than sense.

He was shown into a spacious and comfortable looking room, occupied by two low sofas facing each other across a wide table. A sitting room where negotiations took place, no doubt. Hin’rath bowed again and disappeared, leaving Clarus alone in the room and softly closing the door behind him.

The mage finally let out a relieved breath, sagging a little as he drew back his hood. Beneath his cloak he was wearing his formal travelling attire, the trappings of his rank and office clearly displayed on his tunic’s chest. He had forgone the mage’s usual traveling hat; in fact many mages these days were beginning to shy away from the wide-brimmed pointed hats and capes in favor of a more Plegian-style cloak. It was simply easier.

Clarus bounced on his toes a little, opting to remain standing near the window rather than sit in one of the sofas. He was uncomfortable being away from his lab after all, despite giving Alvidian strict orders to maintain the routine he had outlined. If one of the other senior mages caught wind of what they were doing, especially now while Clarus wasn’t there to try and explain things away…

The balding mage jumped as the door opened behind him, quickly collecting himself as Idallia strode into the room. One glance at her and Clarus could tell she wasn’t impressed about his unscheduled meeting, but mentioning the vineyard had clearly gotten her attention. She stepped in, not even trying to hide the glare she was levelling at him as Hin’rath closed the door behind her.

“Clarus,” Idallia greeted coldly. “You’ve lost weight.”

“Spare the pleasantries, Lady Idallia,” Clarus responded, just as coldly. “I need to speak to you of our venture in the south.”

“I was under the impression that your contract expired when you returned to Ylisstol,” Idallia pointed out mildly.

“This isn’t about contracts, this is about progress,” Clarus explained. “I originally intended to speak to your brother, but before I do speaking with you may give me some insight I require for my own work. Tell me, has he changed since we gave him the armor?”

Idallia visibly winced, casting a quick glance over her shoulder at the clerk standing impassively next to the door. Claris even noticed Hin’rath stiffen a little, subtly averting his eyes.

“What makes you ask?” Idallia hesitantly questioned.

Clarus felt a cold smile rise to his lips as he watched the merchant squirm. It was fear; she was afraid. Either of or for her brother, Clarus didn’t care.

“Judging from your reaction I’d say there has been quite a change,” he said smugly. “Come now, Lady Idallia. We are both intelligent people. Do not try to lie to me. I may even be able to help him.”

Idallia let out a breath and moved woodenly to the sidebar, where she poured herself a generous helping of liquor. Clarus couldn’t help but revel in the way that their positions had been reversed since their last meeting at the vineyard, where it had been he that had used alcohol to calm his shattered nerves.

It felt like a lifetime ago.  

“He has… changed,” Idallia began haltingly. “I do not wish to speak ill of my brother, but…”

“My lady, if the esteemed mage can indeed help…” Hin’rath said hopefully.

Idallia nodded again, draining her glass before turning to face Clarus.

“Maris is not himself,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “He has become brooding and withdrawn, quick to bursts of murderous rage. He attacks anyone that he perceives as a threat, real or imagined. He has left the villa numerous times, for weeks at a time, and returned as if nothing is amiss. But… he always reeks of blood. The magistrates are starting to ask questions. House Themis itself is sniffing around. I… do not know how much longer I can shelter him.”

“And the gryphon?” Clarus prompted.

“It never leaves his side,” Idallia spat. “He even had his room remodeled to allow the beast easier entry. It is why I cannot stop his comings and goings.”

Clarus nodded. Heightened aggression, paranoia…

“What of his physicality?” Clarus asked, stroking his chin in thought. “Does he look any different?”

“I… do not know,” Idallia admitted. “It has been at least a month since I have seen him without his helm.”

“You mean to tell me he hasn’t taken off the armor in a month?” Claris asked, going still.

“He hasn’t taken it off since you had it delivered,” Idallia scoffed.

“Fascinating…” Clarus breathed.

Continued exposure to the ore had resulted in Galuc becoming a wreck of a human, unable to even communicate any longer through the constant physical pain he was assailed with. However, Maris hadn’t ingested the ore, but instead wore it outside himself. Clarus found himself wondering if diluting the ore by forging it with other metals had perhaps also lessened its effects.

“Does he complain about any lingering pain?” Clarus asked.

Idallia shook her head, turning to pour herself another drink.

“Old wounds, nothing new,” she said around the rim of her glass.

Clarus nodded again. He would have to inspect the specimen personally, it appeared.

“I would see him, if he is present.”

* * *

Robin let out a tired sigh as the group finally arrived in Grima’s Fall. The town was only small, centralized around an old Grimleal temple that Tharja had repurposed for her Dark Mages academy. The rest of the town was rather standard fare for a Plegian village; packed mud and stone buildings, a few measly shrubs, and the oasis in the distance. Grima’s Fall, however, was right on the edge of the badlands, where the arid earth became sand dunes, so everything was covered in a fine powder from the sand.

“I still hate the desert,” Robin groaned, patting himself off.

Anna appeared at his side, grinning expectantly up at him as their little procession came to a stop just inside the town gates. Before Robin could ask what she was smiling about a shadow fell over Robin, offering him a brief moment of respite from the blasted sun as Kowrowa made his presence known.

“The red merchant bade me bring you to her, Alpha,” the big wolf-man said without preamble.

Robin nodded, tactically positioning himself in the shade that the hulking shape-shifter provided as he turned to the others.

“Lucina, can you take everyone to the Academy? Tell Tharja I won’t be long. Van, Arya, front and center.”

Lucina nodded, moving to take the lead of the small caravan as a confused-looking Van separated himself from the others. Arya followed, a tired look of resignation on her face. She wasn’t even trying to hide how exhausted she was after the desert crossing. Robin smirked a little when Ita peeled off from the rear of the group, hovering near Kowrowa with her arms crossed and her perpetual scowl firmly in place.

“Okay, I guess Ita can come, too,” Robin shrugged. “We’re going to meet with Anna’s aunt, Anna. Arya, I want you to pay attention, like always.”

“So, meeting with more merchants,” Van grinned. “Think these ones will try to kill us, too? We’ve had pretty bad luck with them, lately.”

Robin scoffed, grinning as well.

“Please. If an Anna is ever angry, wave a few coins under her nose and she’ll be right as rain.”

The red-haired merchant behind him frowned for a moment before placing her index finger to her chin in thought.

“Depends on how big the coins are, I guess…” she muttered absently.

* * *

Clarus stepped into a darkened room, Hin’rath closing the door attentively behind him and cutting off the little light that had been allowed in from the hallway. It was night-time, now; it had taken some time to convince Idallia to allow him to see Maris, but the end result was as he had expected.

He stood still for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom before he continued with shuffling, unsure steps. Clicking his tongue in annoyance Clarus held up his hand, a small flame beginning to dance over his fingertips. The light did not reach far into the impenetrable gloom, though, creating a small circle around the mage and not much else.

“Well, well,” a bored, muffled voice called from the darkness. “I never expected to see you again, Mage. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’ve come to inspect your armor and mount,” Clarus said, his voice hard. “We used an unknown substance on both; I wished to do a follow-up inspection to ensure my handiwork. I am a mage, after all, not a blacksmith.”

There was a sound like dry leaves sliding across bare stone as something shifted to Clarus’ left, but he kept facing forward with a frown fixed in place. He would not be intimidated by this muscle-bound fool any longer, nor by his ill-behaved mount.

“Very well,” Maris said, stepping out of the gloom.

Clarus looked up at the former knight, wearing his full plate and helm like Idallia had said. Judging from his body-language and slow, steady breathing he was the picture of health beneath it. The gryphon stepped out opposite its master, bowing its head as Maris ran a gauntleted hand over its crest, stroking the mottled black and grey feathers. Clarus stepped forward without another word, the gryphon eying him warily but remaining calm as Maris continued to pet it.

With deft, hurried movements Clarus pushed the feathers on its neck aside with his free hand, searching for the creature’s flesh. He found the flesh a similar colour to the creature’s feathers, and now that he was closer Clarus could see that the gryphon’s hind fur had darkened and become black. He took one of the discarded feathers off the ground for good measure, slipping it into his robe as he stood to face the gryphon’s master now. Still, though, Clarus took two steps away from the gryphon, outside of what he assumed was its strike-zone.

“You seem different,” Maris commented. “You… fell different. Familiar. Similar.”

“Similar to what?” Clarus asked curiously.

“Similar to the armor,” the knight said, his voice hushed by the plates covering his face. “Similar to… me. At the very least you are not the coward you were when we last met.”

Clarus scoffed, his small flame flickering a little.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I suppose,” he said. “Now, may I inspect your armor?”

There was a brief moment of silence before Maris’ helmeted head nodded once, the movement so subtle that Clarus almost missed it. He stepped forward, rapping the breastplate with the backs of his knuckles and stopping. Instead of the dull, metallic tone he’d been expecting the sound was muted, almost as if the metal had changed its consistency. He leaned closer, bringing his face to the point where his nose was almost touching the plates as he squinted in the weak light. It no longer had the same lustrous polished shine that it had when he had had Alvin’s people deliver it, and not from lack of maintenance.

The metal seemed almost… Organic now.

“Fascinating… Have you noticed any changes in the plates?” Clarus asked.

“None,” Maris answered.

“None at all?” the mage persisted.

A low growl was his answer, and Clarus stepped back again.

“Yes, yes, no changes in the plates,” he said. “What about you? Any changes?”

“I grow weary of these constant questions, Mage,” Maris snapped.

“Then answer them and we will be done!” Clarus barked back.

There was another brief moment of stillness in the room, even the gryphon waiting and watching its how its master would react. After some time Maris gave a low chuckle, reaching up to pull his helm off.

Black, pulsating veins snaked up his neck, terminating around his temples. His skin had become deathly pale, almost grey and translucent, and was covered in blotches of darker grey that looked almost like bruises. As he smiled Clarus could see that Maris’ teeth had become more akin to sharpened fangs in his mouth, and his eyes shone just the faintest red in the darkness.

“Well, I can’t say that there have been no changes,” Maris said, a hint of laughter in his voice.

Clarus felt his own face break into a wide, hungry grin as he stepped forward again, eyes widening in wonder as he beheld the results of a willing host for the ore.

“Fascinating,” he breathed, studying the knight before him.

* * *

Robin ducked beneath a hessian curtain and into the small building that passed as the inn in Grima’s Fall, Anna and Van following behind with Arya tentatively bringing up the rear. Kowrowa and Ita flanked the door, remaining outside and glowering at anyone who so much as looked at the inn. Robin glanced around, the main room of the inn full of empty tables and a deserted bar; it was a large space, with plenty of room to move and a small stage in one corner that seemed all the bigger in the silent space.

In the opposite corner sat a lone woman, a dead ringer for Anna except for the streaks of grey in her bright red hair and the smile lines at the corners of her eyes. She even wore a similar style of travel clothes, with a familiar Chon’sinian shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“Must take a lot of pull to empty out a place like this at the end of a work day,” Robin commented idly.

As he spoke he began to slowly cross the space separating them, the other three keeping close to him.

“Oh, deary,” Anna’s Aunt chuckled, “When a lady requests some private time most men are happy to oblige.”

“I assume it has nothing to do with the mercenaries hiding on the second floor?” Robin asked without looking up.

The Anna Matriarch let out a laugh, smiling genuinely at Robin and his group.

“I guess it’s true what they say,” she said. “No one can pull the wool over the great Hero-Tactician’s eyes, huh? Won’t you and your friends join me? And hello, Anna, dear.”

“Hello, Auntie!” Anna chirped, slipping into one of the chairs. “Been a while! Do you look younger?”

Robin smirked as he sunk into his own chair, Arya hesitantly doing the same as Van took up position standing at the older tactician’s shoulder. The Anna Matriarch let out a barking laugh at her niece’s compliment, making a show of wiping a tear out of her eye once she was done.

“Oh, you always were one of my favorites,” she said before turning to Robin and getting down to business.

“I’ve heard you had a hand in Ama al-Tha’s closure,” she said, stating the fact.

“Less a hand and more a… bunch of freed, pissed-off slaves, really,” Robin shrugged nonchalantly.

The Anna Matriarch visibly winced before sighing and resting her elbows on the table. Her merchant-mask slipped for just a second and Robin caught a glimpse of a woman exhausted by recent events, before she was grinning at him again. Her smile held a hint of apology this time, though.

“Nasty business, that,” she said in little more than a whisper. “If I’d known Abdul was trading in slaves…”

“Toldja she wouldn’t have known,” Anna muttered to Robin.

The Anna Matriarch shook her head, leaning back in her chair.

“If I’d have known, my men would have been the first ones breaking down his doors,” she said sharply.

“That’s one of the things we all agreed on when we started the Council. No slaves, no drugs, no prostitution. We’re merchants, dammit, not criminals. At least we were meant to be. And now, on top of that, I’ve lost contact with Alvin’s vineyards in the south. The Rommels are all playing hush-hush, but at least I can get a reply from Idallia. Even if all I get is ‘I am currently indisposed’. The only person making my life easier right now is Mar’kale, and it’s saying something when that stubborn old fool is the least of my worries.”

Robin nodded, digesting this flood of new facts.

“You’re being rather free with your information,” he said delicately.

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” the Anna Matriarch scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. “Far as I’m concerned, helping you is the most profitable course right now. Those three idiots have been making a mockery of the Southern Merchant’s Council for years now, right under my nose, and this might be my ticket to making it something… grand again. I’d like to see that before I retire.”

The Matriarch’s gaze suddenly flicked over to Arya, and a beaming smile lit up her face.

“And who’s this?” she asked. “Your apprentice? Ooh, she’s just adorable! I can’t believe I missed her! I must be getting old. How about it, honey, wanna switch careers and become my apprentice? I bet you’d make a great merchant!”

“Please don’t poach my students,” Robin groaned.

Above him he could hear Van trying not to laugh, while Arya simply blinked in shock at the offer and fidgeted uncomfortably. Anna innocently averted her eyes from Robin’s silent plea for help; it was easy to see the family resemblance.

“Oh, foo,” the Matriarch huffed. “Since you started rattling cages I’ve had a lot more work to do. I could use a couple of good apprentices again.”

“That’s why you’re here yourself?” Anna piped up. “You’re short-handed?”

The Matriarch sighed, nodding with a self-depreciating smile.

“That’s one of the draw-backs of change,” she said. “Things change. It was nice being retired from the field while it lasted.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Robin scoffed, leaning back in his own chair. “I did not miss sleeping in the elements.”

“Oh, I know it,” the Matriarch laughed. “But I’ve got a good couple of decades on you, so you don’t get to complain yet.”

They laughed a little at her joke, before the older Anna sobered again.

“Look, I want to help however I can, dearies,” the Matriarch said, leaning her elbows on the table again. “But the fact of the matter is my people are stretched so thin I’ve even had to send mercenaries to make deliveries as merchants. I’m making a killing, but if I pull even ten men my whole house of cards will come tumbling down. I’m going to be playing catch-up for a week just because I stayed an extra night here to meet you. Information is all I can offer you at the moment. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”

Robin nodded, smiling a little at her honest confession.

“I wasn’t expecting an army,” he admitted. “If you can even point us in the direction of Alvin’s base of operations that in itself would be a tremendous help.”

“I have a map with it marked upstairs,” the Matriarch said, getting up. “Wait here. Have a drink on me. It’s the least I can do.”

She swept out of the room, leaving the Shepherds confused and sitting in silence.

“Well, I’m getting that drink,” Van said, making for the bar. “C’mon, squirt, give me a hand. I don’t read Plegian too well. Anyone else want something? Yeah, you all want something. Hold up.”

Arya nodded mutely, standing and following the tactician as he vaulted the bar, sliding across its surface to land behind it and begin inspecting the bottles on the shelf behind it. Beside Robin Anna sighed and slumped a little, staring forlornly at the stairs her Aunt had disappeared up.

“I’d understand if you needed to stay,” Robin said softly. “Sounds like she could use your help, too.”

Anna looked up sharply, another rare frown on her face as she glared at Robin. Two frowns in one day was a testament to just how frazzled the merchant really was.

“You hired me to do a job,” she said. “I don’t leave these things half-finished. Besides, from the sounds of things, this won’t take much longer. I can help her out after we’re done.”

Robin nodded, smiling in his relief. He’d been worried about losing Anna, but he clearly should have trusted her more after everything they’d been through together.

“Not long now, huh?” Robin said, leaning back in his seat again. “I just need to send a few messages to Frederick and we can begin the end-game.”

Anna nodded, and the two lapsed into silence.

“Hey, what’s Pulque?” Van called from the bar.

Robin and Anna both glanced over to where the younger tactician was standing, holding a large bottle of milky white liquid in one hand.

“Alcohol made from a cactus,” Anna chuckled. “I’d stay away from it if I were you. Not a lot of Ylisseans can handle the taste. Is there a bottle labeled ‘mezcal’ on the shelf?”

“Er… yes?” Van said, taking the bottle Arya held out to him.

“Try that one,” Anna suggested with a wink.

Van studied the clear liquid for a moment before recoiling from the bottle in shock.

“Is there supposed to be a worm in this bottle!?” he half-shouted.

“Yup!” Anna laughed.

“Please stop trying to kill my former students,” Robin chuckled.

“Van, grab a bottle of tequila, too!” he added over his shoulder. “I haven’t seen Tharja or Henry in a long time. Hell, grab three! Tonight, we’re celebrating! I’m sure we could all use the break.”

* * *

Clarus stomped through the Mage’s Academy, happily back in Ylisstol again. Idallia had been less than happy when he’d simply breezed out of the Rommel Villa, no doubt, leaving without a word to her. But he was on the verge of one of the greatest discoveries in the field of magecraft in decades! Perhaps even centuries! What did he care if he offended some silly self-styled merchant-queen?

He ignored the greetings of the students and other staff, instead stalking directly up the stairs towards his lab. He continued to ignore the greetings and questions hurled at him, going so far as to step around some of his peers and continue on his way rather than waste even a single moment.

He let out a long sigh when he finally reached the outside of his lab, the heavy wooden door solid and impenetrable as always, the wards still firmly in place. Alvidian had done well, maintaining them, it seemed. With a wave of his hand Clarus deactivated the wards and stepped inside, carefully placing the wards back before turning.

Alvidian glanced up from the no-doubt ancient scroll he was reading, spread out on the long table in the center of the room.

“Master!” the boy said. “That was… you were only gone four days. Did you not rest on your journey?”

Clarus took a deep breath, relaxing for the first time in days as he shrugged his heavy travelling robes off.

“I did not wish to leave our experiments unattended,” Clarus reasoned. “How is Galuc?”

Alvidian sneered, glaring over his shoulder at the former apprentice curled up on the cold stone floor.

“Still fading,” he spat. “It is as if he has lost the will to live.”

“Yes, yes,” Clarus breathed, pushing his thin hair back from his brow.

“That is exactly right. That is why he has become such… such… a wretched thing. But I have seen the ore’s effect on a willing host!”

Alvidian froze and gasped, his eyes widening. Clarus moved through the piles of refuse as he spoke, digging around in the storage boxes against the wall.

“The Rommel-”

“Has bonded with his armor, almost like a second skin,” Clarus said, the excitement clear in his voice. “And that was just from externally applying the ore. If… if we were to take it into ourselves like poor, poor Galuc…”

Clarus trailed off, his face going slack for a moment as he recalled the bright young mind that had been his favored pupil. His eyes lit back up again, though, as he found the object of his search, rising back to his feet and holding a large, serrated dagger.

“What I don’t know, though,” Clarus said as he slowly crossed the space again. “Is the ore’s effects on dead tissue.”

Alvidian’s eyes widened, but he remained silent as Clarus loomed over Galuc’s prone form. He knelt down next to the boy, gently pulling his head back to expose his throat. Galuc’s shoulders weakly rose and fell with each breath, and his eyes weakly focused on the form of his former teacher hovering above him.

There was a brief moment, a split second where Clarus wavered. He saw Galuc in his mind’s eye, not the wretched creature he had become but the smiling, bright young lad that had first arrived at the Academy, grinning up at him from beneath the rim of an oversized mage’s hat his mother had made for him to ‘grow into’. He saw the boy standing nervously as he presented his first research assignment, practicing diligently at his spellcraft until he could conjure an elfire long before the others. Clarus saw the life that he himself had already ended.

Before he could dwell any further Clarus plunged the dagger down into Galuc’s throat, the boy squeaking and going rigid as his lifeblood sprayed all over Clarus’ nice travelling clothes.

There was a gasp from Alvidian as the torrent of blood became a slow trickle, Glauc twitching a few times before finally lying still. The red glow faded from the boy’s shocked eyes, and his shoulders rose and fell, haltingly, one final time and he closed his eyes.

“There,” Clarus said shakily. “Now we wait.”

He turned, struggling to keep himself from vomiting, and crossed to the long table in the center of the room. With trembling hands he reached out, feeling the comforting lumps and crevices of the piece of ore sitting in its usual spot in the center of the table with the tips of his fingers and instantly becoming calm again.

What he was doing, what he had done, was a waste, yes. Galuc had been brilliant. But that brilliance had been clouded by fear and indecision. He would have informed the other senior mages, and Clarus’ experiments would have ended before they began.

A gentle smile rose to his lips as he lifted the ore and held it close to his heart.

“This is for the best,” he muttered. “He’s of far more use to us dead.”

Alvidian nodded, his own face breaking into a grin.

“Now what, Master?” he asked, his tone hushed in reverence.

Clarus’ smile never wavered, even when he brought the ore to his lips and took it into his body. There was a brief moment of pain as the ore passed his esophagus and slid down to his stomach, quickly replaced by a euphoric pleasure as a warm sensation grew from within him. As he turned to face Alvidian Clarus’ own eye began to glow a deep, baleful crimson.

“Now,” he said slowly. “Now we need to find more.”

Behind them, as the two mages began to trace out on a map where they had found the largest deposits of the ore, the lifeless body of Galuc began to twitch, weakly at first but with more and more strength as the minutes passed. Then, as Alvidian and Clarus decided on their search pattern, the corpse opened its glowing red eyes again.

* * *

The next morning Robin gave a little groan as he stretched, yawning and stepping out into the main foyer of the temple in Grima’s Fall. Mercifully, he wasn’t hung over after the previous night’s drinking. Galle and Van would probably be feeling it, but most of the others had been smart about their consumption.

To think, though, that Van had managed to drink the entire bottle of mezcal himself…

Robin chuckled, shaking his head and inspecting the foyer around him. He was always impressed by the sheer size of Tharja’s school. The irony that she had used her family’s savings to open her new Dark Mage school in an old Grimleal temple wasn’t lost on Robin, either. Even though all the old six-eyed Grimleal iconography had been taken away or destroyed and replaced with the swooping raven symbol of Tharja’s new school it had still taken a little getting used to being in.

He stepped back into the shade of one of the massive pillars holding up the ceiling in the central colonnade as a group of students in familiar black robes walked by, talking and laughing as they went to the small refractory building for breakfast. According to Tharja she had fifty-two students now, more than she and Henry could manage on their own. In the same breath she had also cursed him for poaching the only other fully-trained Dark Mage left in existence for his own school, but that was beside the point. There were two other teachers, both Anima Mages sent from Ylisse’s Royal Mage Academy to help teach the younger students proper mana manipulation, and to also lessen the divide between the differing magic classifications. Tharja herself regularly made trips to Ylisstol to lecture at the Academy in exchange for the instructors she had been sent, much to her irritation.

“This building stinks of old blood.”

Robin sighed and glanced over his shoulder at the complaint, giving Ita a tired look as the shape-shifter came up behind him.

“I know,” Robin shrugged. “But it’s an important part of their history.”

The wolf-woman huffed and crossed her arms, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her face. She and Kowrowa, and to a lesser extent Panne, too, were having trouble staying in or near the temple. There was a lot of negative energy residue thanks to the Grimleal, and even Robin had trouble dealing with it. Strangely enough it didn’t seem to bother Fae, but then again nothing ever seemed to bother the manakete.

“When are we leaving?” she asked bluntly.

“I’m just waiting to hear back from Ylisstol and then we’re leaving,” Robin said. “I’ve already explained all this. Stop being so impatient.”

Ita growled, baring her fangs in an animalistic show of her displeasure.

“I am a creature of the forest,” she complained. “The desert does not agree with me.”

Robin nodded absently, going back to watching the parade of students moving for their breakfast through the temple.

“Yeah, me either,” he muttered under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. Basing the Plegian culture on Persia and then giving them Mexican booze is silly. But arak is boring, and really, who doesn’t like tequila?


	13. Chapter 13

In Themis, Idallia let out a sigh as she leaned back in her favorite chair. It was only late in the morning now, of which day she wasn’t sure. Ever since she had begun subtly moving her operation to Silva in Regna Ferox the Themis Villa and trading post had been running on a skeleton crew, meaning she had to work doubly hard to keep anyone from realizing what she was doing. Honestly, by this point she had hoped that Maris would be helping her a little with the business, but if he was so interested in sitting in his dark room and brooding…

She rolled out her neck a little, resting her eyes. She’d barely slept for a week now, and it was beginning to take a toll. She had caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror the previous day, and in her opinion it was getting hard to tell who looked worse between her and Maris. Her skin was sallow and her eyes sunken, circled by heavy bags. Her hair had been a mess, in desperate need of some maintenance and a cut, and she was too tired to do anything about it. In short, she looked nothing like the Southern Merchant Council representative of Themis should.

With another sigh she thought back to her meeting with the mage Clarus.

_“There’s nothing I can do. Yet. Give me time, Lady Idallia, and I may be able to cure your brother.”_

With that cryptic sentence the mage had left, leaving nothing behind except some half-hearted muttered thanks for her hospitality.

“Useless mage,” Idallia spat, massaging her temples.

She hated mages, simply on principle. They tampered with forces that were beyond the understanding of mortals, in her opinion. And now look what one had done to her brother!

The door to her office opened, revealing a haggard-looking Hin’rath carrying a plate of tea and biscuits for her. The Chon’sinian clerk had been working double and triple shifts in the trading post, trying to keep things running smoothly. All of the senior staff had been sent north already to set up the new Trading Post in Silva, as well as most of the housekeeping staff to prepare the Rommels’ lodgings. Meaning, of course, that Hin’rath was singlehandedly running everything, as well as running himself into the ground. When Idallia had confronted the man about this he had waved her off, assuring her he would cope for the last few weeks and then take a break once they were safe in Regna Ferox, but until then…

“Your morning tea, Lady Idallia,” he said with a slight bow as he entered the room.

Idallia didn’t miss the way that the platter balanced atop his hand wobbled with his bow, but chose not to bring it up. Instead, she pushed the purchase receipts and consignment notes on her desk aside to make space for the tray.

“Won’t you join me, Hin’rath?” she asked. “I’m sure that the trading post can wait for a few more minutes.”

The thin clerk blinked a few times, uncertainty clouding his features as he poured a cup of fragrant tea for his mistress. After a few moments he nodded, pouring a second and perching on one of the chairs opposite her desk.

This alone was testament to how exhausted Hin’rath was. Usually he would have politely declined, but he clearly needed the caffeine in the tea, and he knew it, too. His very form dripped exhaustion, and he was clearly nearing the edge of his limits.

“I appreciate your hard work these last few weeks,” Idallia said after a moment of silence. “I know they have been hard on you. But truly, we could not have done this without your efforts.”

“Your words honor me, my lady,” Hin’rath said graciously.

Idallia smiled a little at the man’s modesty. It was nice to still have a calming presence around her, a voice of reason. Usually this was a role that Maurice could fill for her, too; the gruff old soldier’s easy attitude and lop-sided grin always had a way of cheering her up, but he and his men were busy ensuring the safety of the caravans moving north.

“In all honesty I have found the last few weeks to be… trying,” he admitted slowly.

“Once we get to Regna Ferox you can take a vacation,” Idallia laughed. “I know I’ll be taking one. It will be nice to have the entire housekeeping staff back again so you’re not so over-worked, too.”

Hin’rath nodded, a small grin playing at the edges of his mouth.

“It is my job,” he shrugged. “My purpose. I would not dream of shirking my duties to you, my lady. Speaking of which, there is much to be done. Until Sir Alvin’s people inform me of the amount of wine they’re shipping from this harvest I must prepare for the worst. I will return for the tray later. Please excuse me.”

With that the clerk rose and left the room, still moving like a shadow despite his apparent exhaustion. Idallia smiled a little as she continued to sip from her teacup, the fragrant liquid warming its way down to her very core and giving her a slight boost in energy. With a resigned sigh the merchant pushed the tray to the edge of her desk and returned to her work reconciling the account for the latest shipment of goods from Jagen.

She continued to work for another few moments before there was a hurried knock at her door. Hin’rath was the only one that had leave to disturb her right now, but usually his knock was more composed, and usually he entered as soon as he knocked.

“Enter,” Idallia called, a slight tingling of fear shooting up her spine.

The clerk slowly opened the door, bowing low before meeting his mistress’ gaze.

“You have… a visitor, my lady,” he said, his tone strained.

“Unless it’s someone important like the Exalt or the High Magistrate then send them away,” Idallia huffed. “You of all people know how busy we are right now-”

“Well, then we are in luck,” an arching, noble voice said.

Idallia froze as a woman she had only seen from a distance stepped into the doorway. High Magistrate Maribelle of Themis; daughter of the previous Duke, cousin of the current one, and first female magistrate in Ylissean history, who also held numerous ties to the Exalt’s family itself. She was even a hero of the Plegian and Valmese wars, a decorated cavalryman that had ridden with the Ylissean Knights during all three conflicts.

Her long blonde hair was styled in two drills hanging down over her shoulders and onto the chest of her robes of office, a look that had become increasingly popular among the noble-circles of late. There was a bored frown set on her perfect face as she stepped into the room, Hin’rath stepping aside and silently slipping out behind her. As Hin’rath left Idallia caught sight of a pair of armed and armored Themisian knights flanking the door, the morning sun glinting off their heavy white plates.

“I apologize for interrupting your business. I would ask why it is you are so busy, but that is not why I am here,” Maribelle said, her tone carefully neutral. “I have come to speak with you about your… elder brother, I believe he is?”

Idallia swallowed and nodded, expending all of her effort into maintaining the smiling merchant’s mask she had worked for years to craft.

“Oh? What seems to be the problem, High-Magistrate?” she asked lightly. “I am sorry to say that my dearest brother has not been well lately and has been shut up in his room to recover for quite some time now. Ah, please, take a seat. Shall I call Hin’rath to bring some refreshments?”

Maribelle nodded stiffly, carefully perching on the edge of one of the two chairs facing Idallia. Her poise and posture were perfect, the merchant noted; a far cry from her own current sorry state.

“I appreciate the thought, but that will not be necessary. Can you tell me what afflicts your brother?” the magistrate asked.

“He is merely struck with a case of melancholy, Magistrate,” Idallia said, smiling what she hoped was an embarrassed smile. “He was a Knight, you see. But he has aged, and is not quite the warrior he used to be. I fear that this knowledge has hit him hard, and he does not know what to do with himself.”

“He does not like to play at being a merchant?” Maribelle asked.

“It is a very strenuous lifestyle, as you can see,” Idallia chuckled. “May I ask you why the High-Magistrate herself has taken an interest in my brother?”

The blonde woman shifted a little, smiling her own fake smile.

“Your family has done much to return prosperity to Themis, Lady Idallia,” Maribelle explained. “Not to mention that you are a member of the Southern Council of Merchants. The thought of sending one of my underlings to speak with you and your sibling did not sit well with me after all you have done for this city.”

Idallia smiled serenely, but inside she was panicking.

“So what is it that you wished to speak to my brother of, High Magistrate?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

Maribelle shifter a little in her seat, her face becoming a frown of distaste at the mere thought.

“There have been a string of murders,” she said eventually. “Whole faming hamlets in Themisian territory, wiped out at night, the corpses left to rot. Not even the women and children were spared. The city is scared, and looking for someone to blame. I am surprised you have not heard of this, Lady Idallia.”

“Yes, we have been… very busy,” the merchant said. “As horrible as this turn of events is, what makes you think we had any involvement in these murders?”

Maribelle gave her a strange, piercing look before continuing.

“I came to speak with you because many of the families either had members that worked for you or were small suppliers for your business ventures. And you truly knew nothing of this?”

Idallia suppressed a shudder as she smiled and shook her head. She needed to get rid of the magistrate, before she slipped up and gave something away while she was so fatigued.

“Unfortunately, High Magistrate, my operation has long since grown beyond the level where I am familiar with every single nuance of it,” she said, reaching quickly for an excuse. “I will do some investigating of my own, have my people follow what leads they can, and offer my full cooperation with your own investigation. I will also speak to my brother once he is well again, and have him organize a meeting with you at his earliest possible convenience. Now, you must excuse me, Lady Maribelle, but as I have stated I am incredibly busy at present. Hin’rath will show you out.”

“Of course,” the Magistrate said, smiling icily as she rose. “We appreciate your cooperation in these matters, Idallia of house Rommel. Thank you again for your time.”

The merchant resisted the urge to let out a sigh of relief as the younger woman made her way for the door, hesitating as her hand hovered over the knob.

“You say your operation is busy,” Maribelle said slowly, glancing over her shoulder. “Yet I have noticed that the villa feels… surprisingly empty. Almost as if you are busy because there is no one here.”

“Of course, High Magistrate,” Idallia laughed. “Long have I felt that I needed to increase my staff. Perhaps I should have done so before this rush hit us, but there is no time to train anyone new now.”

Maribelle let out a small, thoughtful noise before finally opening the door.

“Good day, Lady Idallia,” she said. “Thank you again for your time.”

As the door closed Idallia let out the breath she’d been holding, sagging in her seat as the adrenaline left her a shaking mess. With trembling hands she poured herself another cup of tea, wincing when she realized it had long gone cold. With a hitched sob she practically threw the cup back onto the tray, taking a shuddering breath to try and calm down.

“Brother, what have you done?” she whispered weakly, resting her head in her hands.

* * *

“Quite the little party you have following you around now,” Tharja commented.

“Yeah, how you guys move so quietly is beyond me,” Henry cackled. “And I really, really want to know.”

Robin grinned and shrugged in response.

“What can I say? Subtlety was never either of your strong suits.”

Henry burst into laughter while Tharja’s face broke into a slight grin. The three of them were sitting in the Headmaster’s office, the old temple’s inner sanctum that Tharja had converted to her office and living quarters. It looked exactly the way Robin expected her home to; organized chaos. Books and scrolls were everywhere, any gaps on shelves full of spell reagents. There was a cauldron, cold for the moment but clearly used often, sitting over the fire pit next to them. A curtain in the back separated the sleeping area from the ‘living’ area, and judging from the occasional sounds coming from behind it baby-Noire was sleeping fitfully within. Above them a few of the larger ravens that followed Henry around were roosting, Tharja’s own familiar sticking out among them; the raven Huginn stared down at Robin with open curiosity.

“Where’s Lucina?” Henry asked, glancing around Robin’s back.

“Resting,” the tactician shrugged. “She’s not really one for desert crossings.”

Of course, Robin added internally, that was only partly true. Lucina and Tharja had never really seen eye to eye. They had never really meshed, and there was still a little jealousy between the two. Neither really approved of the other’s relationship with the tactician, although both remained silent on the matter in deference to Robin. Honestly, it was better to just let sleeping dogs lie on this matter.

“Has there been any word from Frederick yet?” Tharja asked conversationally.

“No,” Robin sighed. “But as soon as I get his letter we’ll leave…”

The tactician glanced up at the birds above them, eyes settling on Huginn as a thought occurred to him.

“Can I take Huginn with me?” he asked without preamble.

“No,” Tharja said without a hint of hesitation, earning a fresh peal of laughter from Henry.

“C’mon, I need to be able to communicate and scout without using so much magic,” Robin pleaded. “Especially because Frederick’s spy ring doesn’t include any mages. Consider it a personal favor to an old friend.”

Tharja glared at him for a moment before sighing and nodding.

“I could never say no to you,” she admitted softly.

“You won’t regret it,” Robin assured her with a smile. “My gut’s telling me that this whole thing with the Rommels is bigger than just my school getting knocked down, and I still don’t know what their end-game is. It would be nice to know that I have allies in this.”

“You always did,” Tharja promised him sincerely. “Simply say the word and the entirety of the Dark Mages will be at your side.”

“Yeah, all six of them,” Henry scoffed, grinning.

“Six Dark Mages is still a terrifying thought,” Robin laughed. “And six Dark Mages actually working together? You saw what two of them did to Grima’s Avatar at Mount Origin.”

“I was one of them,” Tharja reminded him.

“And I missed it,” Henry moaned, pouting.

Robin burst out laughing, followed closely by Henry. Even Tharja snickered a little.

“Thank you both,” Robin said once they quieted. “I mean it. As soon as I hear back from Frederick, I’ll be out of your hair.”

“What about your little demolition-man?” Henry asked, suddenly serious again.

Robin shrugged, reclining a little in his chair.

“I check on his location every day,” the tactician said. “Maris hasn’t gone far from Themis since we left. He hasn’t left Ylisse, at least.”

“Good,” Tharja nodded. “We need to figure out how he’s channeling Grima’s mana before anything else.”

“Yeah, that or kill him,” Henry shrugged.

“Yeah, but I guess it’s too much to hope the psycho stays put until this all blows over,” Robin sighed.

* * *

That evening, while Robin finally caught up with his old Dark Mage friends, back in Themis Maribelle let out a relieved sigh as she let the heavy robes and mantle of her office fall to the floor of her private bedroom, the one that only Kellam and young Brady had ever seen, along with her most trusted maids. She sank into the small, cushioned chair in front of the vanity as she began to undo the laces of her boots, her thoughts wandering to the day’s events.

Idallia Rommel had been lying to her. That much had been clear. But about what, Maribelle wasn’t sure. As a magistrate, she was still young and inexperienced. She should have left the questioning up to one of the more senior investigators, but propriety had dictated that someone of Idallia’s status be questioned by someone of equal or greater status.

With another, greater sigh of relief Maribelle kicked off the first of her boots, massaging her aching foot a little before starting on the second boot.

Why she had thought that such high-topped boots were necessary beneath her robes was beyond her at present…

Her life had been one of incredible difficulty in the years since Grima’s defeat; rebuilding Themis basically from the ground up had been the first step, but trying to help cement her cousin’s position as Duke was made difficult by the sheer fact that the people wanted her to rule. Roark had done a good job, though, and Maribelle had been able to become the magistrate she had always dreamed of being. She had excelled at the role, too, smashing aside any preconceived notions of her older male peers and being unanimously voted in as the High Magistrate with the retirement of her predecessor.

All the while Kellam had been there, steadfastly supporting her as her partner and husband. The soldier had become Captain of the Guard, the highest rank someone of common birth could attain, and Maribelle had been prouder than anyone as she had watched his appointment ceremony. It often rankled her that her husband would be shackled by his low birth like this, but such was life among the nobility. But he had taken it all in stride, smiling his usual easy smile as he urged her on to greater and greater heights.

She honestly didn’t know what she would do without Kellam around to prop her up, some days.

With a third and final sigh bordering on ecstasy Maribelle finally kicked her final boot of, reclining now and letting her aching feet rest on the cool floor of the room she shared with him and closed her eyes.

She didn’t twitch when someone silently opened the door and slipped into the room. Even after all of these years Kellam still moved like a cat, silent even in his heavy suit of armor. She had gotten good at listening for him, though, and he rarely snuck up on her any more.

“Can you tell the butler to bring dinner up here again tonight, darling?” she asked without looking up. “I fear I am far too exhausted to eat in the dining room tonight. And I am not putting any shoes back on right now.”

Something in her room stopped moving, the soft brushing of iron plates against each other making Maribelle wonder if Kellam had forgotten to take his armor off again.

“You know, it’s not healthy to eat in your room all the time. But then again, what right do I have to talk? This is the first time I’ve left my room in a week.”

Maribelle shot to her feet at the strange voice coming from the other side of her room, years of Shepherd training taking over as she reached for the staff she kept in the corner of her room. Her first thoughts were of Brady’s safety, but the boy was with his father, and no doubt far safer than Maribelle was at present.

A large man in full black plate stood near her bed, looking around her private space with no thought towards her privacy. There was something off about him, though. He gave Maribelle a bad feeling. A vary familiar, very bad feeling.

“I will only ask once,” Maribelle said in a low voice, levelling her staff like a lance. “Who are you, and why are you in my home?”

The man laughed, taking a few steps around the bed to inspect the items stacked atop one of the dressers. The way he moved was so similar to Kellam it wasn’t funny; it was as if he had no presence. There was no wasted movement in any of his actions, either. He was well-trained, and experienced, then.

“I always wondered how nobility lived,” he muttered, running his gauntleted fingers along the top of the dresser. “You know, the old adage ‘the grass is always greener’?”

“You speak of nobility, yet you leave yourself helmed in the presence of a lady?” Maribelle chuckled. “Speak! Who are you!?”

“I think you know damn well who I am, High Magistrate,” the man spat, rounding on her. “You, who have spent so long hounding my steps and admiring my work…”

“You are responsible for the murders,” she said, inching back a little. “Are you Maris Rommel, then?”

The man in black chuckled a little as he reached for his helm.

“I was, once,” he said, dropping the heavy helm to the ground. “Admittedly every day I feel a little further away, a little more detached from that name.”

Maribelle gasped and recoiled from the twisted, ruined face she was presented with. It was indeed Maris, but changed somehow, almost as if he had become a Deadlord. Which wasn’t possible now that Grima was gone. He was almost unrecognizable from the proud knight in her father’s service she had met during the war.

“What has happened to you?” Maribelle asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“The tactician,” Maris spat. “The ‘Godslayer’, the great hero of Ylisse!”

“Robin would never do something like this!” Maribelle snapped.

“He started this!” Maris thundered, his eyes flashing crimson in the gloom. “He is the reason I became this… monster!”

Maribelle shrunk away from the man’s explosive rage, levelling her staff once again.

“And what do you want with me?” she asked slowly.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Maris laughed, his mood shifting mercurially as a great smile split his face. “I’m here to kill you for poking around in matters that don’t concern you! There’s no room for someone so nosy in the coming world…”

He punctuated his statement by drawing a long, black-iron sword. It wasn’t the same as the ones that the Deadlords had wielded during the war, but it was close enough to make Maribelle retreat another few steps.

“You will not find me such easy prey,” Maribelle warned. “Before all that, though, tell me where you got such armaments. I doubt any Themisian blacksmith would besmirch a suit of Knights’ Armor like that.”

“Ah yes,” Maris chuckled as he advanced on her. “The old ‘keep the villain talking until help arrives’ routine. I wasn’t born yesterday, High Magistrate.”

Maribelle chuckled ruefully as she held her ground.

 “I may no longer be a Shepherd,” she sighed. “But I have not forgotten what I learned from those days.”

Maris laughed.

“If you think you can stop me with an old healing staff, you are sadly mistaken.”

With that he pounced, swinging his black sword in a great scything arc. Maribelle ducked beneath the blow rather than try to parry it, moving back across the room behind him and out of his striking range. He was stronger and faster than she was, and clearly had more experience in single combat, but she wasn’t about to be cut down in her own home.

With another cackling laugh Maris spun, leading with his sword again. Maribelle grunted as she pushed the blow aside with the haft of her staff, the strong wood earning a deep notch for her efforts as she backed away again.

“Just how many more times do you think that staff can take a blow like that?” Maris mocked, echoing her own thoughts.

“I suppose I must go on the offensive, then,” Maribelle ground out, setting her stance again.

Before Maris could even laugh at her determination she leapt forward, ducking low beneath his hasty parry and bringing the head of her staff up crashing into his chin. The former knight reeled, shaking the stars from his vision, and Maribelle decided to escape, turning and sprinting from the door while he was distracted.

Just as her fingertips brushed the handle she felt a sharp pain in her scalp as Maris yanked her back by the hair, throwing her across the room one-handed. She flew through the air for a moment, all the breath being forced from her lungs as she crashed into the opposite wall in a heap.

“Ah, that hurt you little bitch,” the former knight growled angrily as he stalked back towards her. “I’m going to make you suffer for that.”

“Perhaps you should have left your helmet on, then,” Maribelle groaned, rising up on one elbow.

Maris laughed as he lashed out, the toe of his boot connecting with Maribelle’s cheek so hard she momentarily blacked out. She forced herself to remain conscious, though, just in time to feel Maris’ heel break two or three of her ribs as he stomped on her.

“I’ll make sure your son is the first one to see your body,” Maris promised, kneeling and leaning over her. “I wonder what would be more traumatic for the boy? If he found you naked and gutted like a fish, or if I were to tear off each of your limbs and…”

Maribelle blinked as something warm and wet fell onto her bruised chest, looking up at the spearhead protruding from Maris’ own chest.

Behind him Kellam stood in his plainclothes, a look of fury she had never seen before on his face as he drove his lance deeper into Maris’ shoulder.

“Ow,” Maris groaned, looking back. “How do you… move so quietly, anyway?”

“It’s a gift,” the bigger man growled.

Kellam lifted, actually lifted, the armored Maris on the end of his spear and flung him across the room, much the same way he had thrown Maribelle. The former knight crashed into an expensive painting on the wall near the door, going down in a bloody heap of armor and ruined canvas.

“Ah, good,” he laughed, rising instantly back to his feet as if the blow had been nothing. “It was getting boring beating up on the woman. It’ll be much more sporting to kill you first and make her watch.”

“Stay down, honey,” Kellam whispered, before turning to face the intruder.

Kellam spun, the tip of his lance low, and flicked Maris’ helmet up so fast the movement was a blur. The former knight caught the headgear, giving Kellam a suspicious glare.

“No handicaps,” the big man said with a smirk.

As he spoke Kellam sunk into a two-handed spear posture he’d learned while in Chon’sin, in case he ever found himself without his shield, the tip of the weapon low and his stance wide. Maris grunted and pulled the helm back on, chuckling a little as he shook his shoulders out.

“You’ll regret that,” he warned, bringing his sword up again.

Maribelle let out a little groan as she pushed herself up into a sitting position, letting her back rest against the wall as she gasped for breath. Her eye was swelling closed now from Maris’ kick and her broken ribs ground against each other with every breath she took, but she still refused to pass out.

Kellam moved first, utilizing his greater reach and striking quickly at the armored Maris, keeping him back. The former knight spun low, coming up inside Kellam’s strike zone and grabbing his spear by the haft, making to pull it aside. Kellam didn’t hesitate, though, and brought his forehead down on Maris’ helm so hard there was an indentation in the hard metal, and the former knight stumbled back in surprise. Kellam pressed his attack, silently striking again with even greater speed and scoring a few small hits that failed to penetrate Maris’ armor.

The armored man roared again, swinging his sword in a wild backhand strike and forcing Kellam back this time. Maris pressed his advantage, shouting wordlessly as he lashed out again and again, Kellam catching every blow on the haft of his weapon until Maris finally got lucky and struck the spear in two. Kellam barely flinched as the black-bladed sword bit into his own shoulder, smashing the blunt ended half of his spear against Maris’ helm and running the pointed tip through his stomach. Then, as Maris reeled from the blow, Kellam grabbed him by the arm and bodily threw him across the room again. This time, though, Maris sailed through the window and out into the villa’s grounds three stories below.

Kellam rushed to the window, frowning as a gust of wind knocked him back and a massive form let out a high-pitched shriek in his face before flying off into the night.

“Was that… a gryphon?” Maribelle asked, disbelief plain on her injured face.

Kellam sighed, his shoulders relaxing as he held a hand to his wounded shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he asked, turning to Maribelle.

“F-fine,” she winced. “I’ll be fine. Round up… the city guard. T-the knights… Everyone! Storm the… the Rommel villa and arrest… them all!”

* * *

Idallia bolted into a sitting position in her bed, fumbling for the dagger she kept on her nightstand as light flooded into the room from the hallway.

“Get up,” Maris said shortly. “We need to move up the schedule.”

Idallia blinked, lighting the lamp on her nightstand and letting out a horrified gasp when she saw her brother’s armored form. Dark blood ran down the blackened plates, dripping into and ruining the expensive rugs she had imported from Valm. He swayed a little before catching himself and throwing some random clothes at her.

“Get dressed,” he urged. “We don’t have much time.”

“W-what happened?” Idallia stammered, climbing out of bed. “What’s going on, brother? What have you done!?”

“They attacked us!” Maris snapped, suddenly shouting. “That magistrate and her kind don’t understand what we’re trying to do! They’ll be here soon! We need to leave!”

Idallia felt a horrific surge of fear as she held the blouse her brother had thrown at her close to her chest.

“T-the farms,” she said slowly, looking down. “Those families… Did you… were you the one…”

“They betrayed us!” Maris thundered. “They were abandoning us, selling us out to the Guard and the Knights! I killed them before they could harm our plans, sister dear! Now get dressed!”

There was a brief moment of tension before Idallia shuddered and looked down again, nodding meekly.

“Get out so I can change,” she said in a low voice.

Maris grunted, crossing the room to stand before his sister. With a gloved hand he reached out, gently stroking her cheek before he spoke again, his tone far softer than before.

“Just hurry. We’re out of time.”

With that Maris stalked from the room, shutting the door behind him and leaving Idallia to shudder with disgust alone in her dimly lit room as she slipped out of her nightgown and quickly dressed for the road.

When she finally opened the door of her room Hin’rath was waiting now, too, looking as tired and frazzled as ever next to the massive form of Maris.

“Hin’rath will stay here as the rearguard,” Maris declared suddenly. “Along with what little forces remain. The workers will load up whatever isn’t tied down and-”

“Wait, what are you talking about ‘rearguard’?” Idallia interrupted. “There’s no rearguard! This isn’t a battle, we’re simply running-”

“And they’ll catch us if we don’t leave a rearguard!” Maris snapped, turning on his heel and stomping away. “Hin’rath knows this, too! Get ready to leave, sister. We must go.”

Hin’rath smiled awkwardly as Idallia turned her terrified gaze at him, shrugging a little.

“He has a point, my lady,” the clerk said sadly. “You should go now, before it’s too late.”

Idallia shook her head, tears rising to her eyes. This was all happening too fast!

“No,” she said. “I won’t leave you behind. Not you. Not the last person I have left that-“

Idallia was cut off when Hin’rath did something she never expected him to do and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her in an awkward but warm embrace.

“Thank you for everything, Lady Idallia,” Hin’rath said softly. “It has been my life’s joy to serve you. I pray that we meet again, in this life or the next.”

“N-no,” Idallia whimpered as he pulled back.

“Now go with your brother, my lady,” Hin’rath said, bowing. “I must see to the defenses. We will hold the City Guard’s attention for as long as we can, but I fear it will not be very long. I have already prepared a basket of snacks and a thermos of tea for your journey. It is waiting in your wagon. I wish you safe travels.”

And with that the skinny clerk spun, walking purposefully back towards the receiving dock, leaving Idallia feeling utterly lost and alone for the first time since her parents’ deaths.

Her brother was lost to madness, and now she was losing her most trusted advisor to his ambitions, too.

What had started out as a foolproof plan to take power in the most bloodless way possible was quickly spiraling out of control and consuming everything she cared about.

And she had no idea how to stop it now.

* * *

Arya fidgeted nervously as she stood with her teacher, the older tactician stifling a yawn as they waited in the atrium of the Dark Mage Academy. It was early in the morning, and Arya shivered in the chill desert air that blew through the open space.

Robin shivered at her side, grumbling as he bundled up a little more beneath his coat.

“Gods, I forget how cold it gets in the desert sometimes,” he mumbled, blinking groggily.

He glanced around absently, a vacant expression on his face while Arya watched. It was still a little strange for her seeing a literal hero, a man that had saved the world, so unguarded and, for lack of a better term, human.

“Tharja, hurry up, I’m freezing here!” he groaned, hopping up and down a little on the spot.

“It is not that cold,” a new voice said.

Arya and Robin both jumped, spinning to face the newcomer. A painfully beautiful woman stood with one hand on her hip, her perfectly straight black hair hanging down past her shoulders as she arched an eyebrow at the tactician trainee. The way she stood propped her cloak up to reveal the sheer, skintight bodysuit of a Dark Mage, complete with the golden choker and trinkets and chains of a high ranking mage.

“About time,” Robin grumbled. “Arya, this is Tharja. Tharja, Arya. Here. She’s your problem now. Throw her in the deep end and make a mage out of her. I’m going back to bed.”

With that, Robin turned and left Arya alone with the highest-ranking Dark Mage left in the world; another hero of Plegia and living legend. Tharja wasn’t an uncommon name in some parts of the desert nation, but it only just sunk in that Arya would be learning from _the_ Tharja.

How many other legends would she get to meet while learning from the Hero-Tactician?

The Dark Mage turned her cold gaze on Arya, and the girl had to resist the urge to shrink away. Arya knew that her teachers had been doing their best to instill her with a sense of confidence, and after the events at Themis and Saiqat she was ready to start acting a little more like a tactician. Or so she told herself, anyway. She was still incredibly nervous.

“Any previous experience?” Tharja asked suddenly.

“N-no,” Arya stammered. “I mean, Sir Robin taught me a little about tapping mana-lines, but… I haven’t… c-cast anything yet.”

“We’ll worry about getting you some robes later. Follow,” she said suddenly, spinning and walking away.

“And stop stammering,” Tharja added over her shoulder.

Arya silently hurried to keep up with the older woman, her golden heels clacking loudly against the stone floor of the empty temple around them. She was struck immediately by how confident, how self-assured Tharja was compared to her. Every movement, every step, every sway of her hips oozed power and confidence, and it made Arya even more aware of her own plainness and shortcomings.

“Robin has asked me to throw you in the deep end,” Tharja explained while they walked, not looking back. “So I will teach you with my advanced class. You will address me as Lady Tharja or Master at all times. You will only speak when spoken to. You will only channel mana and cast when I tell you to. Do you understand me?”

“Y-yes Master!” Arya squeaked nervously.

“And. Stop. Stammering,” Tharja added, emphasizing her words dangerously.

Arya nodded wordlessly, following along. Tharja led her through the temple where other young mage trainees were beginning to stir, emerging from dormitory rooms and washrooms in various states of dress and wakefulness. The older ones all seemed to be moving towards the lecture area that she had seen when they had first arrived, already wearing robes or suits similar to Lady Tharja’s, while the younger ones seemed to be more interested in what was for breakfast.

However, as they passed all of the trainees, regardless of age, stopped and bowed their heads respectfully to their instructor.

The younger girl thought she saw Tharja smirking a little as they walked, but put it up to her own imagination.

Tharja led her through the temple and into a smaller room near the back, the center of the space occupied by a large black cauldron, a small fire already crackling away beneath it. Around the cauldron five others sat, stood or leaned, waiting for their teacher. Two young men, clearly brothers given how similar they looked, sat side-by-side on a low crate, one fiddling with his nails while the other hurriedly scribbled in a thin looking book. A small way away from them a slightly older man sat, cross-legged on the ground with his hands neatly folded on his lap. His chest was bare beneath his cloak, and his head was shaved above the serene expression on his face, but he radiated an aura of magic so strong that even Arya could feel it. The last two, both girls, were whispering something to each other as they leaned against the closest wall, but fell silent when Tharja entered. One looked to be about Arya’s age, with long chestnut hair and a round, innocent-seeming face looked surprised to see Arya behind their teacher. The final student, clearly closer to Tharja’s age than the others, actually looked somewhat similar to the teacher, if far thinner. Strangely, though, she had a bow strapped to her hip. She smiled when she saw Tharja enter, brushing some of her own shoulder-length black hair away from her face.

“This is Arya,” Tharja introduced without preamble as she took up a position next to the cauldron. “She is Robin’s newest apprentice, and he has asked me to make a mage out of her. She will, therefore, be joining you for a time.”

The older, black-haired girl gave Arya a little smile as the younger one waved cheerily. The two brothers both offered her a greeting nod, one grinning a little as the other looked away in boredom. The bald man simply stood, looking expressionlessly at Arya before turning his full attention back to Tharja.

“Today we’re going to be focusing on scrying hexes,” Tharja said. “I hope you all brought your regnants.”

One of the brothers cursed as the other chuckled, the students crowding around the cauldron. Arya tentatively stepped forward too, finding herself next to the older, bow-carrying girl.

“Just stay close to me,” the girl whispered. “I’ll help you. My name is Noire.”

Arya nodded, and watched carefully as Tharja began to explain how to cast the complex spell.

* * *

A few weeks later Arya let out a loud yawn, balancing the spoon atop the rim of her bowl as she did so. She was alone at one end of the long tables in the school’s refractory, sitting in over-sized Dark Mage’s robes. Her face broke out into a smile, though, when she saw three familiar forms come through the door.

“Hey guys! Over here!” she called out, waving to get their attention.

Asim, Lateef and Femi all broke out into their own grins as they picked up their own breakfast and hurried over. The twin boys wound up arguing over the last slice of toast, as usual, but Femi ignored them and fell into her seat across from Arya.

“Morning,” the older girl yawned. “Sleep good?”

“When my nose stopped running, yeah,” Arya laughed.

At Robin’s urging she had been ‘thrown into the deep end’, training with the most advanced class of mages under the school’s headmistress herself. While her aptitude for magic wasn’t extremely high, she excelled at the small spells she could use, including a number of hexes and curses. It had been refreshing, being surrounded by Plegians again, although it did somehow remind Arya about why she left in the first place. Almost every member of the school was an orphan like her or had lost a parent during the war.

“Yeah, we all got hit with that curse,” Lateef laughed, dropping into the seat next to Arya.

“It’s one of Lady Tharja’s favorites,” Asim sighed, sitting opposite his brother.

Arya nodded, reflexively rubbing her nose as she noticed that the boys had split the last piece of toast evenly. Why they didn’t just show up on time was beyond her…

The trainee-tactician glanced around the busy refractory, a contented smile on her face. She spotted Noire eating with Severa, Owain, Lucina and Brady, the older girl also apparently having come from the future like the others, but she couldn’t find the final member of their class anywhere.

“Where’s Badru?” she asked curiously.

“Meditating,” Asim and Lateef both answered in a disinterested-union, spooning their congealed oats in time.

“What about your friend, Fae?” Femi asked conversationally.

“She’s still out in the desert,” Arya sighed.

It had been quiet since Fae had gone off on her ‘mission’, but Robin had promised she’d be back before they departed.

“Hey, I saw that!”

“Then maybe you should have eaten it faster!”

“You are so dead!”

Femi sighed as the twins began to bicker again, arguing over the last bite of toast that Asim had eaten off of Lateef’s plate.

“There they go again,” the older Plegian girl sighed.

She sighed, scooting to one side as the boys started grappling across the table. Arya laughed, moving out of their way as well. At least her mage training was proving entertaining.

Too bad, she realized with a sudden sense of melancholy that it wouldn’t last.


	14. Chapter 14

“I don’t know. Looks abandoned from here.”

Robin nodded, squinting through his spyglass at the sprawling villa in the distance. Next to him in the light forest Gaius crouched, doing likewise with his own equipment while behind the two men in the bushes Lucina, Galle, Van and Arya waited patiently for them to give the all-clear to advance.

With a fluttering of wings Huginn, Tharja’s large raven-familiar, landed on a branch above Robin and cawed softly.

“What...?” Robin asked, glancing up at the bird.

“What’d he say?” Gaius asked curiously.

“That… no one’s in the villa,” Robin responded. “I think, anyway. Tharja and Henry had to rush me through the ‘talking to birds’ lessons. I think he said ‘silent as a grave’ or something.”

Huginn ruffled his feathers before taking flight again and moving lazily through the air to circle around the Villa.

The small group had been travelling for a few weeks now, the remainder of the party camped just outside of Southtown while Anna did some business for her Aunt, their cover for this mission. Lucina had insisted on coming along, complaining that she didn’t get to practice her stealth abilities anymore, and Galle, Van and Arya had just wound up being dragged along in their wake. The Plegian boy looked a little lost without Mariko at his side at first, but that could also have been Robin’s over-active imagination.

Arya, on the other hand, was beginning to grow a little bit of confidence. Thanks to the training she had been receiving with Robin and Lucina she was currently, to his thinking, an adequate tactical mind. Also, after her time under Tharja’s tutelage in Plegia she had become a fair bit more confident, as well as a decent beginner-level mage. He wouldn’t give her overall command of a unit, but perhaps a squad or two of her own would probably be within her current abilities.

Silently Robin and Gaius made their way back to where the others waited.

“Okay Arya, you’re up,” Robin said expectantly.

The girl jumped a little before nodding confidently. This was another part of her field training; she was in charge of this mission, under Robin’s supervision.

She had begun to grow at an alarming rate now that she was being fed and looked after properly; gone was the hollow-eyed girl that they had picked up in Themis, replaced with what was quickly becoming a strong and intelligent young woman.

“What’s the situation?” she asked. “Give me tactical.”

“Villa seems to be deserted,” Gaius responded instantly. “Fields are overgrown, the crop’s gone bad. No signs of life. Could be the wrong place.”

“This is where Anna’s Aunt said the Villa was,” Arya said, shaking her head.

“Could be a trap,” Galle grunted.

“How do you want to proceed?” Robin asked.

Arya stopped to think for a moment before nodding again.

“We split into two groups. Circle around the grounds, looking for any evidence of inhabitants or any signs of an ambush. Meet back here and then decide what to do from there. Gaius, you take Galle and Van and circle west. I’ll go with Sir Robin and Lady Lucina around east, and we’ll meet back here. If you run into trouble…”

“I’ll make some noise,” the thief said with a grin. “C’mon boys, let me show you how the master does it.”

“Goody,” Galle sighed, rolling his eyes and hitching his coat higher on his shoulders.

“Stay safe, kid,” Van said to Arya with a grin, before following after the other two members of his team

The tactician-apprentice looked up at Robin, who nodded approvingly.

“Er… Sir Robin, you lead the way,” she said.

“Why?” he asked, arching a brow. “Explain your reasoning.”

Arya hesitated a moment before explaining.

“B-because you’re the second-best at stealth ops behind Gaius,” she explained. “I want… no, we need the best eyes and ears up front.”

Robin nodded, breaking into a grin.

“Good reasoning,” he chuckled. “But I’m taking points off for hesitating.”

Arya sighed, indicating her teacher move ahead. Robin spun on his heel before disappearing into the light forest around them, leaving Arya and Lucina to follow.

Gulping down her nerves Arya set off, her time-travelling, God-slaying, fate-defying fencing instructor at her shoulder. Glancing at the older woman out of the corner of her eye Arya saw a cool, stony face scanning the trees around them, the way she should have been. Arya found it a little hard to focus around Lucina, especially after she had learned that the blue haired woman was royalty. Ylissean royalty, no less. But here she was, slogging through the forest into certain danger alongside a slum-kid that-

Arya let out a little squeak as a jolt of electricity ran up her spine. She looked up guiltily, coming face to face with a frowning Robin.

“You’re now dead,” he said matter-of-factly. “So are Lucina and I. That’s what happens when your head isn’t in the game. Focus. Compartmentalize. Whatever’s on your mind can wait.”

Arya nodded as her instructor returned to point, leaving her with a grinning Lucina.

“Don’t worry,” the blue-haired woman whispered conspiratorially as they started to follow again. “I stopped counting the amount of times he shocked the other students on training missions like this.”

Arya let out a little snort before she could stop herself, clamping both hands onto her mouth as Robin spun. The tactician narrowed his eyes at the two women, Lucina trying to look as innocent as possible while Arya tried to stifle her laughter. With his eyes still narrowed he raised his hand in front of his face, magical lighting dancing across the appendage as a warning before turning back to the task at hand.

“I think we made him angry,” Lucina whispered, earning another snort from Arya before they hurried to keep up.

* * *

“Find anything?” Arya asked.

Gaius shook his head.

“Nothing but a bunch of dead crops, Squirt,” the thief said.

“It’s like the fields were left alone for months,” Van added. “It’s been a while since anyone’s been through here, too. No tracks besides animal ones. Something big was here, too. Bigger than a horse, but again, that was a while ago.”

Arya nodded, resisting the urge to glance at her instructor as she thought.

“We have to check the Villa,” she said after a moment. “Sir Gaius, Sir Robin and I will go in; Van, you, Galle and Lady Lucina wait out here. You’re our back-up. If you hear a commotion, come save us.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to get real good at the whole rescue-duty thing,” Galle muttered.

“Why are you splitting our forces?” Robin asked.

Arya hesitated, looking up at her teacher.

“Lady Lucina and Van aren’t… as skilled at infiltration as the rest of us,” she explained. “And Sir Galle… is fast. He’s the best option to leave behind to head a quick-response team.”

Robin nodded. “Good. Solid reasoning.”

Arya let out a breath, earning a pat on her shoulder from Lucina as Robin turned to look at Huginn circling overhead.

“We’ve still got a few hours of sunlight left,” he said, squinting.

“I know we should wait until dark to infiltrate,” Arya said. “But all the evidence points to this being either a trap, or the Villa is abandoned. If it’s a trap it would be better to deal with this in the daylight, right?”

Robin nodded, grinning at her over his shoulder.

“Who taught you to be so smart?” he asked smugly.

“Yeah, like your ego needs more stroking, Bubbles,” Gaius sighed. “Let’s just get on with it. This place gives me the creeps.”

“I know what he means,” Van agreed. “It’s… eerie how quiet it is.”

“Agreed,” Robin said. “But I’m making one change to the plan. Galle goes in my place. I spotted something I wanted to go and check on while we were circling the forest.”

Galle shrugged, stepping forwards to stand beside Gaius and Arya as Robin moved towards the forest. Lucina gave him a questioning look, to which he shrugged.

“You all have your orders,” he said. “Galle, make sure Arya comes back.”

“What about Sir Gaius?” Arya asked petulantly.

The thief snorted, giving her a nudge with his elbow.

“Squirt, if something actually manages to get a hit on me we’re all screwed,” he laughed.

* * *

Galle strained his senses as he followed Gaius, the older man moving as silently as a shadow up to the house. Behind him Arya followed, the trainee-tactician far less stealthy than the other two, but still quiet enough that no one inside the villa would hear her. She had clearly been paying attention to the way Gaius moved, watching his techniques carefully.

They followed the perimeter of the building, hugging the outer wall and ducking under windows until they came to a verandah. The delicate glass doors swung lazily in the breeze, the inside of the building dark despite the time of day.

“Anyone else getting that bad feeling?” Gaius asked under his breath.

“Yeah,” Galle agreed with a shudder.

He took a few silent steps on the verandah, freezing when something crunched softly beneath his boot. Fly-casings. Thousands of them, scattered all over the floor.

“Never a good sign,” Gaius muttered, crouching to look at the casings.

“C’mon,” Arya urged. “We still need to check inside.”

The two men exchanged glances as she passed between them, Gaius giving a shrug and following first. Galle let out a sigh as he moved to follow, hesitating as the wind shifted and a familiar scent wafted towards him.

Decay. The whole Villa smelled like death.

“Galle, get in here!” Arya called in a hushed whisper.

Fearing the worst the Plegian tactician rushed forward, already channeling his mana for a worst-case scenario, but came to an abrupt halt as he found Arya and Gaius studying a dark smear on the wall-

“It’s definitely blood,” Gaius nodded, brushing his fingers over the stain. “A few months old at the least. But… where’s the body? There’s no way someone lost this much blood and walked away.”

“Scavengers, maybe?” Galle asked, glancing up and down the hall.

Arya shook her head, pushing herself to her feet.

“This is supposed to be an important trading post,” she said. “There should be… someone, or at least the remains of someone. Let’s keep looking.”

Galle and Gaius shared a look as Arya ventured further into the Villa past them, before the older man shrugged and moved to keep up with her, leaving Galle alone with the smear. He took another look down at it before shaking his head and clicking his fingers, a small flame appearing above his outstretched hand.

“Can you two even see in there?” he asked as he jogged to catch up.

* * *

Arya advanced slowly beside Galle, the two of them leading an uncomfortable looking Gaius through the abandoned Villa.

Everywhere they turned now that they were inside there were traces of battle and struggle; walls and doors were broken, and there was debris scattered everywhere. Broken and discarded weapons lay among the remains of what must have been priceless art, torn from the walls or knocked from their resting places.

But the worst part was the blood.

Dried blood covered almost every surface like a macabre coat of paint. There was splatters on the ceiling, and Arya could see where it had run down the walls. A lot of people had died in this place, and the thought made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

But they had yet to find a single body.

“This is creepy,” Gaius muttered, shuddering a little.

“Yeah,” Galle agreed, playing his little flame around the space.

Arya found it hard to agree with the two men, though; after spending so long in slums she was somewhat desensitized to violence like this. There had been times where she had been forced to stay in abandoned houses that looked a lot like this inside, rather than sleep in the cold. This was actually preferable, actually; she hadn’t seen any bodies in this Villa yet.

“Let’s just keep going,” she said quietly. “We need to find out what happened here.”

Galle nodded, but she could hear Gaius sigh behind her. The lazy thief seemed to be really out of sorts in this Villa; he was usually much more professional than this on a mission.

They continued in silence for some time, eventually coming out of the servant corridors on to a colonnade lit by large windows. Gaius sucked a breath in, and even Galle looked a little uncomfortable at the sight. It was no different than what they had been dealing with, but in the daylight it was far more unpleasant. Dark brown and black stains were everywhere, as were massive scars in the walls and floors seemingly made by some large bladed weapons. Arya stopped to investigate one of them, brushing the tips of her fingers over the tear in the wood and plaster. She withdrew her hand, a hostile tingling sensation in the tips of her fingers startling her.

“Galle, what…” she started, trailing off when the older Plegian came up behind her.

He sucked a startled breath in through his nose, before shaking his head.

“Dark magic,” was all he said before moving away.

Arya studied the scar on the wall again, reaching out with her senses the way that Lady Tharja had taught her to. There was indeed a foul magical resonance to the hole, similar yet different to the Dark Magic that she had been taught. It made her sick to her stomach, yet at the same time felt strangely nostalgic for her…

“Hidden door,” Gaius called out from the other end of the hall, gagging. “Oh Naga… I don’t think you kids should… see this…”

The two young tacticians hurried over, peering down to the darkened stairway behind a shattered wall panel. Galle squinted into the dark opening before summoning his fire again, throwing a few magical embers into the stone passageway and…

“Oh I do not get paid enough for this,” Gaius muttered. “I’m a thief, dammit. A thief. This is… above my pay-grade.”

There was a thick coating of blood and gore on the stairs leading into the hidden basement. The stench of decay was much stronger in the passageway, almost like a physical thing in its potency. Galle recoiled as if struck, coughing into one hand and glaring at the offending air as Arya knelt down, studying the first of the steps with cold analytical precision.

“We’re going down there, aren’t we?” the thief whined from behind the two tacticians.

Arya nodded.

“Watch your footing,” she said, beginning to descend the staircase. “It’ll take forever to get the smell off if you fall.”

Galle sighed again as he followed the student into the opening, taking shallow breaths through his mouth. Gaius let out a small whimper before gingerly stepping down after them.

“It disturbs me greatly that you know that,” he muttered, following the two tacticians.

The way that the surface of the stairs stuck to the soles of Arya’s boots was unpleasant in the extreme, but she compartmentalized the way that Robin had taught her to and pressed on. She kept telling herself that it was nothing she wasn’t used to. At the base of the stairs they came to another hall running both directions, the trail of old blood smeared onto the stone floor leading one direction.

“Follow the trail,” she instructed, taking off again without hesitation.

They walked through the darkness with Galle’s small flame as their only illumination back in the direction they had come from. Every few meters there was a dead torch or a sconce that would once have held one attached to the wall. Arya resisted the urge to tell Galle to light them; it would make leaving easier but would also give away their position. It would also illuminate more things that Gaius would probably rather not see.

The trio reluctantly followed the trail of red-brown through the basement for some time, emerging into a large, empty store room. All the signs of a struggle had ceased once they had gone underground, replaced instead by signs of hastily abandoned work; tools and other detritus had been left lying around, and there were unsealed casks of wine that had long since gone bad.

The trail continued through the room and into the next, Galle’s flames not quite reaching far enough to bypass the small opening left between the wall and door. In the center of the big room there seemed to be some sort of mixture between a cauldron and an anvil, more discarded tools lying around it. Against the opposite wall was what appeared to be the remains of a forge, again hastily abandoned. Arya approached it slowly as Galle and Gaius moved to inspect the rest of the room for any clues.

The nagging feeling of hostility had grown when she had entered the room, a sense of wrongness that made her want to run as fast as she could back to the surface yet still felt overwhelmingly familiar.

She knelt down next to the anvil, inexplicably drawn to the small box sitting at the base of-

“I really wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”

Arya screamed, leaping to her feet and falling backwards. Galle and Gaius were at her side instantly, drawing their weapons ready to face off against…

“Bubbles?” Gaius asked, lowering his daggers. “I thought you wanted to check something out…”

Robin nodded, kneeling down where Arya had been earlier.

“Sorry,” he said with a grin that was anything but. “Didn’t mean to frighten you like that.”

“Yes you did,” Gaius muttered sulkily.

Robin shrugged, reaching into the box he’d scared Arya away from.

“I thought you were looking for something outside?” Arya asked, letting Galle pull her up.

“What did you find?” the other tactician asked.

“Spotted the forge’s chimney, which led me to the back door,” the white haired man shrugged. “And a lot of bodies. Don’t go through that doorway. It’s not… not pretty.”

Arya and Galle exchanged glances before she steeled herself and made for the doorway. With a tired sigh Galle followed after her. It made Arya feel better knowing that he would be with her; she needed to see this through. She needed to know.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you…” Robin sighed. “Huginn wasn’t being poetic when he used the word ‘grave’…”

The older tactician rose to his feet, subtly tucking something into his pocket as he did so. Arya didn’t care, though; she trusted her teacher. And she needed to know what had happened to the people that had been here.

As she drew closer to the doorway the stench of purification grew even stronger, making Galle gag again. Arya pushed on, covering her face with her sleeve and forcing open the door.

Arya had seen bodies before; she was no stranger to violence, and some would even come to argue that the life she had led up to that point had been more horrifying than what the veteran soldiers of the Valm campaign had lived through. She was desensitized to it. She had seen it all before already in her short life.

But still, the sight beyond the door made even her sick.

“Oh dear sweet Grima…” Galle muttered in horror, his eyes wide as he arrived at her shoulder.

The Plegian boy retched, doubling over at the sight as Arya stood rooted to the spot, her horrified eyes wide.

There was a pile of shriveled, shrunken flesh and white bones lying in the center of another room like the one Gaius and Robin waited in. The bodies had yet to properly decompose, due most likely to the cool darkness of the basement. The bodies weren’t the problem, though; it was the parts. Limbs, fingers, heads and torsos, strewn about randomly, all in various states of decomposition. Some of the bones had clearly been gnawed on, sticking straight up out of the pile. There, on the top with the head of a spear that was planted into something to make it stand upright protruding from its mouth, was the corpse of the man that had to be the Villa’s master.

“Stop looking,” Galle groaned, pulling her away.

Arya nodded, her eyes still wide as she let the older Plegian lead her away from the pile of corpses.

Robin and Gaius were watching her carefully, probably waiting for her to panic like she had before. Arya took a deep, shuddering breath to calm herself as Galle half-pulled, half-leaned on her. She wouldn’t go to pieces again, though. She wasn’t a scared little girl any more…

“Call it, kid,” Robin said, his voice sounding more tired than she’d ever heard before.

Arya nodded, taking another deep breath.

“We need to inform someone. Knight Commander Frederick, maybe; if nothing else someone needs to come clean this up. But an investigation needs to be made into this… monstrosity.”

Robin nodded, satisfied.

“We’ll do just that,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

* * *

Arya resisted the urge to yelp as the icy cold water splashed onto her face, gripping the edge of the barrel outside of Southtown’s inn with white knuckles as the liquid dripped off her face. Try as she might she couldn’t get the mental image of that pile of corpses out of her head. Galle had been tight lipped since they had left that basement, and it wasn’t until they hit sunlight again that she noticed that Gaius was white as a sheet.

What they had seen… had been abhorrent.

“What kind of monster could do that…?” she asked out loud, her voice barely a whisper.

She jumped a little, still twitchy from the mission earlier that day, when a large raven cawed above her. Huginn tilted his head quizzically as he watched the girl, blinking a few times and ruffling his feathers up before hopping along the edge of the roof he was perched on across from the inn. He cawed again, somehow managing to sound annoyed when Arya stared at him mystified and clearly wanting her to follow.

Shaking her head at the absurdity of taking orders from an overgrown buzzard, Arya moved towards the alleyway between the inn and the general store next door to it, where Huginn was perched.

She hesitated at the mouth of the alleyway, noticing a weak purple light emanating from within.

“Hey, kid,” Robin called out to her. “Little cold to be out without your coat, don’t you think?”

Arya stammered an apology to her teacher, rooted to the spot. His back was turned to her and he was hunched over something, holding it in both hands. Whatever it was he was holding was the source of the light in the alleyway, and Arya felt her curiosity getting the better of her again.

“Er… sir…?” she asked trepidatiously, taking a small step into the alley.

“Come here, Arya,” Robin said, his voice taking on a distracted, far-away quality.

She nodded, moving to her teacher’s side. She felt her pulse quicken at the prospect of finding out what he was holding, but that excitement quickly turned to confusion when she reached his side. Floating between his hands was a small ball of purple mana, an image playing out within it. A young girl with shoulder-length hair the same colour as Lucina’s was sitting on the edge of the bed, an older woman with tanned skin wearing dark mage’s robes running a brush through her hair. No sound was coming from the scrying, the scene playing out silently before the enraptured tactician.

“This is my daughter, Emm,” Robin explained to Arya. “The woman with her is my sister. They’re back north, in our home in Regna Ferox. My school. It’s been rebuilt, finished for months now.”

Arya nodded, watching as the young girl turned in her Aunt’s lap and smiled up at her, the older woman clearly trying not to smile back as she turned the younger one back around.

“Whenever I see stuff like we saw today,” Robin went on, “whenever I feel homesick, or I feel like giving up and returning to the north, I cast this spell, and just… watch her. Not for too long… I don’t want to invade her privacy. But I just remind myself why we’re doing this.”

Robin flexed his fingers, the spell dissipating and leaving the two of them standing in the dark. The older tactician gave a great sigh, running a hand through his long white hair.

“It’s been more than a year now since I’ve seen her last,” he muttered, more to himself than his student.

Arya was somewhat stunned by seeing her teacher like this. She was also felt slightly guilty at the small twinge of jealousy she felt. Usually Robin was unshakable, always smiling or thinking or prompting her to think for herself. The pained look on his face just didn’t suit him.

“Sir, what… did you find in the Villa?”

Arya’s eyes widened at the same time as Robin’s. She hadn’t meant to ask that, but she’d been thinking it since they had gotten back to town. Her teacher chuckled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out something carefully wrapped in a handkerchief.

“Don’t tell the others,” he instructed as he unwrapped the little parcel. “I don’t want to cause any undue panic. This stuff does answer a lot of questions, though…”

Arya’s breath caught in her throat as a small lump of black _something_ was revealed to her, barely the size of a coin and sitting snugly in the palm of Robin’s hand. The little lump was shot through with lines of deep red, but apart from that Arya couldn’t tell much else in the weak light.

“You wanted to know about Grima,” Robin said suddenly. “This is… what’s left of him.”

The girl gasped as she involuntarily stepped back, recoiling at the revelation.

“What… how…” she stammered, starting to shake.

This explained the sense of nostalgia and hostility…

“Relax,” Robin said, quickly re-wrapping the lump. “I’ve used some pretty complex warding spells on it so that it’s inert. But this explains a lot, and raises a lot more questions I’d rather not be asking.”

“Didn’t they learn after last time?” he muttered so softly that the shaken Arya almost missed it.

“But don’t say anything to the others,” Robin warned again. “If this is a one-off I don’t want to worry them. If it’s not, I’ll take care of it. I’m kind of an expert at killing this stuff, so don’t panic the others. That goes double for you!”

He said the last part glancing up at the big raven perched above them, watching with inquisitive eyes. It let out an indignant squawk at being singled out, ruffling its feathers before hopping away down the roof’s edge again.

“Come on,” Robin said, turning. “Let’s call a meeting. It’s about time we thought about our next step.”

* * *

“Well, we’re stuck,” Robin sighed. “The trail’s gone cold. I was honestly hoping for a repeat of Ama al-Tha at the worst, but… I don’t… know what to do now.”

Silence met the tactician’s admission, all eyes watching him in stunned disbelief.

The group of travelers was sitting around in the common-room in Southtown’s inn, the entirety of the small building being rented by Anna’s Aunt to house the travelers. Not that the inn saw much traffic, anyway. Everyone sat or stood in the small parlor, facing Robin perched up on the abandoned bar.

“We found nothing in the southern vineyard,” he went on. “Whoever killed the people there did a damn good job covering their tracks. All the documents were gone, and as far as we can tell there wasn’t a single survivor. Hopefully Frederick will have something new for us to go on, but I doubt it. Once Huginn’s rested I’ll send out word and then… yeah.”

“So… that’s it, then?” Van asked tentatively. “We’re… we’re just done? Just like that? After all this time?”

Robin sighed again, leaning forward and massaging his tired eyes.

“I’m not saying that,” he said. “But if we’ve used up our last leads we’ll need to think of a different approach. And if it comes down to that I intend to do said thinking from Nauta.”

“But we can’t just give up the ground we’ve taken-” Van started to argue before Robin cut him off.

“What ground?” the older tactician snapped. “We’ve been running around in circles! We’ve been grasping at straws! We’re supposed to be some of the brightest minds in the world, and we’re being outsmarted by a bunch of bloody merchants!”

“No offense, Anna,” he added, glancing over to the plucky woman.

Silence reigned for a moment, before Robin let out another tired sigh and pushed himself to his feet.

“We need… to think,” he muttered. “We can’t do this on our own anymore. We’re at the end of our rope. There’s no shame in admitting we need help here.”

“You know,” a new voice said from the parlor’s entrance. “When you were leading the Shepherds you had the foresight to at least put a man on guard duty.”

The entire group turned to face the intruder, more than a few hands dropping to their weapons. Robin just let out a tired laugh, leaning back against the bar and crossing his arms.

“We can’t all be paranoid our entire lives, Frederick ‘the Wary’,” he chuckled.

“Daddy!?” Severa cried out in disbelief.

“S-sir Frederick!?” Owain shouted in a panic, hiding himself behind the red-haired girl.

A big man stepped into the room, his head bowed beneath his travelling cloak. His footfalls were heavy, and it took Arya a moment to realize that he wasn’t so much ‘big’ as he was covered in thick plates of armor.

“Do not worry,” the big man added. “I took the liberty of leaving one of my own men to stand guard.”

Severa crossed the space in the blink of an eye, throwing herself at the man to wrap him in a tight hug. Frederick smiled, returning the embrace before stepping around her and approaching Robin. He hesitated as he passed Lucina, stopping to offer her a deep and respectful bow. The blue haired woman hesitated for a moment before nodding graciously.

“Princess, it does me good to see you well,” he greeted formally.

“Sir Frederick,” Lucina responded. “While it is good to see you again, too, I must remind you that I renounced my claim to the throne.”

“Of course, my lady,” the Knight said, straightening. “But while you bear the brand my loyalties are clear.”

Frederick nodded again as Lucina let out a small defeated sigh, moving to stand in front of Robin and crossing his arms.

“You know, I was just about to send you a message,” the smaller man said.

“We’re out of time,” Frederick said without preamble.

“Explain,” Robin said, instantly alert again.

“The Rommels are on the move,” Frederick said. “Lady Maribelle has sent word that they have abandoned their Villa in Themis and are fleeing north to Regna Ferox en mass. They have apparently been at it for some time, but one of them tipped their hand by trying to assassinate Lady Maribelle for investigating.”

“The land acquisitions…” Van whispered, his eyes widening.

“Is Maribelle alright?” Robin asked.

“She is rattled, but more angry than anything else,” Frederick answered. “She is going to personally lead the Themisian contingent that is attending the Meet.”

Robin let out a relieved sigh, hesitating a moment before he frowned.

“They tried once to take over Silva by force, and when that didn’t work they just threw money at it,” he said, distaste plain on his face. “But why? That’s what I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple,” Frederick said. “Any citizen of Regna Ferox can challenge the Khan of their region for the position. And any land-owner in Regna Ferox…”

“Is a citizen,” Owain finished, his voice betraying his fear at the notion.

“It all makes sense. How did we miss this…?” Robin muttered, rubbing his eyes again with the heels of his hands.

“It was Morgan’s deduction,” Frederick went on. “She’s… too smart for her own good. Her and that damned woman from Chon’sin that follows her around everywhere. I’m surprised we managed to keep this a secret as long as we did.”

Robin snickered, a few of the others in the room doing the same at the revelation. Frederick’s tone held no malice, though, and instead he wore a slight upturning to his lips on his usually grim face, the closest he got to a smile in public.

“I wanted to tell you this personally,” the Knight Commander went on. “I’ve already contacted Basilio and Flavia. The Shepherds will be infiltrating the Khan tournament as contestants for Eastern and Western Regna Ferox.”

Robin nodded, stroking his chin in thought.

“We’re not going to make it to Silva in time to stop them,” he muttered. “The best we can do is hope to delay their army and beat them in the tournament. They own Silva fair and square, but we can’t let these madmen gain control of the entire country. If they do, trying to bring them to justice for their crimes will be tantamount to declaring war on Regna Ferox.”

Frederick nodded. “That was my thinking, yes. And we cannot simply let them go unpunished for their misdeeds.”

“We’ll move to stall their troops,” Robin declared. “I’ll call in Tharja and her mages, too.”

“Wait, what?” Galle asked, sitting up straight.

“Yer kiddin’, right Boss?” Brady asked.

“When’s the next Khan Tournament? How long do I have?” the tactician asked, ignoring the weak protests.

“Two months,” Frederick said.

Robin stood, turning to face the assembled Shepherds he had gathered over the last year. Every one of them, new and old, looked to him for guidance, for orders, for direction. His eyes met Lucina’s gaze, her own face stony and cold at this new revelation, and she nodded, spurring him on.

“Shepherds, this changes everything,” Robin declared. “This has gone from a fact-finding investigative mission to all-out war. The endgame is the same; bring the Rommel merchant family to justice. But this is no longer the time for sneaking around. I intend to march into Regna Ferox and bring them down myself if I must.”

He hesitated for a moment, making eye contact with everyone in the room.

“I won’t make this an order,” he said finally. “I’m past ordering people to risk their lives for me. If any of you want to leave, now is the time.”

“I want to leave,” Galle said instantly, raising his hand.

Mari shushed him, slapping his hand back down before nodding at Robin.

“We are with you, master,” she said. “Both of us.”

“Don’t just decide that kind of stuff for me!” Galle said indignantly.

Mari simply turned, raising one brow at the Plegian boy. He wilted instantly, throwing his hands up in defeat and slumping in his chair.

“Fine, we’re in,” he said.

“Me, too,” Van said. “This is a Ylissean problem. I’d be a failure to my Knight training if I let them get away with it.”

“I wanna help, too!” Fae said excitedly. “It’s been too long since I’ve been to Regna Ferox!”

“I suppose we’re going, too?” Ita sighed, looking to Kowrowa.

“Where the Alpha goes, we go,” the big shape-shifter nodded in confirmation.

“This is the second time you’ve dragged me into a war,” Gaius grumbled. “You’d better have some damn good sweets for me at the end of it.”

“We stand with you, Robin,” Panne declared, resting a hand on the pouting Gaius’ shoulder. “The Taguel shall champion you.”

“Yes!” Owain cried. “I sense adventure on the horizon! My sword hand burns with anticipation!”

Severa sighed, rolling her eyes as she shook her head.

“We’ve followed ya this far,” Brady shrugged. “Guess we’re in it fer the long haul, Boss.”

“Like I said in the desert, these bozos make all merchants look bad,” Anna said with her trademark wink. “I think a little liquidation is in order, don’t you?”

“My friends…” Robin said, at a loss for words. “Thank you. Truly. You have no idea what this means to me.”

Arya cleared her throat nervously, stepping forward a little.

“I-I’m with you, too, master,” she said hesitantly. “F-for whatever good it does…”

Robin nodded, turning to smile at the girl.

“That means a lot to me Arya,” he said. “Thank you.”

Frederick stepped forward again, his commanding presence instantly diverting the attention.

“Then I will go and make the preparations,” he said. “I… wish you luck, Robin.”

The tactician nodded, holding out his hand to the Knight. Frederick hesitated for a moment before grasping the proffered hand, nodding once. With that, he left, leaving the Shepherds alone now to make their preparations.

* * *

Tharja let out a small sigh, crumpling Robin’s message in her hand. He hadn’t even had Huginn deliver it. One of Cordelia’s Pegasus Knights had been pressed into playing courier, the woman currently standing looking extremely uncomfortable being surrounded by so many Plegians at once as she waited for Tharja’s response.

Not that the Dark Mage needed to think very hard about it. A promise was a promise, after all.

“Tell your Commander that we can meet the tacticians at the Longfort when the time comes,” she said dismissively. “And tell them that next time they had best contact me personally.”

The Knight nodded once, swinging back into her saddle and kicking her mount into the air. Tharja had opted to meet with the woman outside the old temple, rather than bring her through to the inner sanctum. Both were equally as private, but Tharja still had a healthy dose of mistrust for outsiders, if she were completely honest.

As she strode back towards the temple, still in a foul mood at being brushed off by her friend, she failed to notice that someone was waiting for her on the steps.

“Mother?” Noire asked. “What… w-was that about?”

Tharja glanced up, eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly. Noire didn’t miss this, and let out a little squeak as she wrung her hands in front of her chest in a subconscious movement.

“We are being summoned,” was all the answer that Tharja gave.

She brushed by her daughter, moving into the temple to make preparations. Robin needed her to be ready; she would have to step up her training schedule for the advanced class to ensure that they were, too.

“Summoned to w-where?” Noire stammered, hurrying to keep pace.

“War,” Tharja spat, frowning.

* * *

Frederick grimaced, standing slowly from his chair in his office. One of the many drawbacks of being Knight-Commander of all of Ylisse was the sheer amount of paperwork that found itself on his desk. But that was to be expected; ever since the disaster that was the Valm campaign Ylisse had redoubled their efforts to field cavalry and mounted support units. There were even numerous priests and mages attached to the knights now, and Cordelia had been experimenting with trying to increase her own order’s numbers to include male Pegasus Knights. The winged creatures had been less than accommodating so far, but once his wife set her mind to something little could change it.

He glanced up as Stahl came into the small office he kept in the Knight Wing of Ylisstol’s palace, the brunette Lieutenant swallowed, clearly still chewing on something as he snapped to attention and saluted before dropping another sheaf of papers on the Commander’s desk.

“Reports from Sully and Kjelle’s squads in the north,” he said, swallowing again. “They’re both in position at the Longfort, waiting for orders to move towards the Coliseum. Vaike and the others have already infiltrated.”

Frederick nodded, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Good,” he said, moving out from behind his desk. “I’m sorry to separate you from your family for so long, Stahl.”

The other knight shrugged, falling into step with the Commander.

“Someone’s got to look after little Kjelle,” he said flippantly. “Besides, as much as I miss them, I don’t miss camp rations.”

“I agree,” Frederick sighed as they walked. “It was difficult at times to ensure the Exalt and Princess got adequate nutrition during the campaigns.”

Stahl chuckled a little as they walked, the two men lapsing into silence with their own thoughts.

They were as ready as they were going to get in regards to the Rommel uprising; as long as no unforeseen circumstances occurred, Frederick was certain that they could quash this coup before it became a problem for Ylisse.

* * *

Flavia let out a weak groan as she rose, the skins and furs she slept beneath, all either trophies or gifts from other clan leaders, falling away as she sat up. The Khan blinked a few times, letting wakefulness return fully as she glanced around her private quarters in the Coliseum. It had taken some time for her to get the smell of the oaf out of the room, and with the Khan Tournament coming up she didn’t even want to think of giving it up now.

Yawning, the older woman stretched, feeling a small painful twinge in her shoulder from an old wound. She hissed, rotating the joint and standing. Her naked, dark tan skin was covered in scars, as befitting of a warrior leader to her people, yet still she had been told by various men over her life that she held a certain type of feminine allure that only a warrior possessed. Such compliments had usually ended in Flavia beating said men into tavern floors, but such was life in Regna Ferox. If you wanted to flirt, you had to be prepared to get hurt.

She snickered a little at that line, something Robin had said to her when they’d been drinking together back in Valm.

As she went about dressing for another day of preparations for the upcoming festival that marked the start of the Khan Tournament she reminisced on the time she had been one of Ylisse’s Shepherds.

It had been more than six years ago now, and it felt like a lifetime ago. Back then, with the fate of the entire world on their shoulders, they had stood firm against the evil dark dragon god of destruction Grima, snatching victory out of the jaws of almost certain defeat. She and her counterpart, the West Khan Basilio, had both played pivotal roles in Robin’s strategies, leading troops and eventually standing shoulder to shoulder in the final battle with the younger generation of warriors.

With a snort Flavia realized that the thought made her feel old.

They had been good times, despite the looming threat of extinction. Simpler times. Rather than lead a country Flavia had led her army; rather than listen to endless petitions day in and day out she had fought for her life and her future. It had been desperate, harsh and brutal, but some days she would give anything to have those days back.

As she pulled her wrist-guards over her hands her gaze settled onto the bright golden-bladed sword leaning in the corner of the room next to her battered old longsword; the ancient weapon Ragnell, supposedly blessed by a foreign goddess of chaos. She had taken it in Valm when its bearer had fallen before the Conqueror Walhart, thinking that the blade would come in handy when they finally faced Grima. And it had; the ancient sword had cut down the Risen with an ease that had almost made it boring. She had been meaning to return it for some time now, but no one could find Priam’s next of kin to accept the blade, and Flavia would be damned if she sent such a beautiful weapon to sit in a tomb.

She strapped the heavy weapon to her back, the familiar weight comforting as she emerged into the wide, pillared audience chamber that overlooked the Arena Floor.

“Good morning, Khan Flavia,” Raimi greeted, meeting her halfway across the floor.

“’Morning,” the older woman yawned. “What’re you doing here? The Coliseum burn down while I was sleeping?”

Raimi snorted, falling into step with her Khan.

“What, I can’t come to see my beloved Aunt before I return to the Longfort?” she asked condescendingly.

“No, you cannot be my champion for the Khan Tournament,” Flavia laughed. “No family, remember?”

Raimi let out a sigh, her shoulders sagging slightly. This was the same conversation they’d been having for years now, but rules were in place for a reason, and the people of Regna Ferox were sticklers for tradition.

“Fine,” the younger woman sulked. “But I’m still fighting in the preliminaries.”

Flavia laughed as they came into the hallway outside the audience chamber, the space already bustling with dozens of attendants and clerks running back and forth preparing for the upcoming festivities. She exchanged greetings as she strode through them, smiling at the sight of the industry of Regna Ferox.

The Tournament had been delayed for the last couple of years as the two halves of the nation recouped their losses. She had even discussed with Basilio simply doing away with it and uniting the nation permanently; it would be an unpopular decision, but it would have made things easier in the long run. As it was it was almost like two smaller nations inside the bigger one, constantly at each other’s throat. Even if the rulers got along the people still didn’t see eye to eye.

The red-armored Khan stopped as she passed an opening looking out at the busy city beneath them. All around the exterior of the giant arena was the Coliseum City, a sprawling, wheel shaped metropolis that, while not as pretty as Ylisstol, was every bit as grand. She leaned on the edge of the low barrier, watching her people going about their daily lives. The Coliseum was one of the few places in Regna Ferox where the people of the East and West met and coexisted, the other two places being the Longfort and more recently Nauta in the north.

Flavia glanced over her shoulder as something thumped her back armor, Raimi grinning behind her.

“Don’t you have work to do?” the younger woman asked.

“Don’t you have a Longfort to lord over?” Flavia asked back, standing again.

Raimi snorted, crossing her arms and grinning.

“Of course, Khan Flavia,” she said mockingly. “I will return to my post. I’ll be back in time for the tournament, though.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Flavia said, waving her off. “Go on, get lost.”

Raimi laughed, shaking her head as she turned and strode away. Flavia grinned and watched her niece’s back before a thought occurred to her.

“Hey!” she called out.

The other woman turned as Flavia grinned.

“I expect a good showing from you in the prelims, Warden,” Flavia said.

Raimi scoffed, crossing her arms and walking backwards a little.

“I don’t think there’s going to be much of a preliminary tournament if I fight in it,” she shot back.

“Yeah, talk big after you win,” Flavia laughed. “Now get lost. I have a country to run.”

* * *

However, contrary to her earlier words to her niece, Flavia reflected as she strode out towards the training grounds, there was very little left for her to do this close to the Khan-meet besides wait for it to happen and ensure that the preparations for the festival went properly. Technically there was no ruler in Regna Ferox for the month leading up to the meet, both the East and West Khan traditionally marshalling their forces and saving their best soldiers for the tournament. Bandits were usually a problem at this time, but ever since Silva they had been quiet, keeping mostly to the deepest parts of the forests and making very little trouble for the Khans.

Which meant really all that Flavia had left to do was train away the boredom.

Ragnell bounced slightly against her shoulder guard as she walked, it’s well-worn grip like an old friend in her hand. The weapon was lighter and thinner than her old sword, but Flavia couldn’t well wield the beaten old thing forever. Besides, Raimi was her favored subordinate; one day she would challenge Flavia for the title of Khan and hopefully beat her. If no one in Valm stepped forward as Priam’s next of kin she’d just give the stupid thing to her as a victory trophy. Hopefully she wouldn’t have to wait long for the challenge-

“Khan Flavia! K-Khan Flavia!”

She sighed, turning slightly to the young clerk racing towards her.

“What?” she asked, bouncing the sword up and down against her armor irritably.

“T-there’s… some land-owners from Silva here to see you,” the clerk gasped, out of breath. “They’re… they-”

“Bring them here, then,” she snapped, cutting the boy off. “I’m not skipping another training session.”

The clerk nodded and raced off back towards the Khan’s quarters, leaving Flavia standing alone on the training ground. She had missed enough training already, and wouldn’t be made to look a fool in front of Basilio just because she’d been too busy. The Khan’s personal training grounds were on the roof of the Coliseum, just above their audience chamber. A strong, cold wind buffeted Flavia, but she ignored it as she began to run through her warm-up drills. It wasn’t unusual for the Khan to see their subjects while they were training; it was Regna Ferox, after all. Like all the traditions passed down from their barbarian roots, martial prowess was valued above all else.

She glanced up as the clerk reappeared, leading two cloaked and hooded strangers out onto the training ground from the recessed stairway. The first was small, no taller than Robin and clearly a woman judging from the way she walked. The second, though, caught Flavia’s eye instantly; a big man, covered in thick armor if the lumps beneath his cloak were anything to go by. The handle of a massive two-handed broadsword stuck up over one shoulder, and as he got closer Flavia could tell that beneath his hood he wore a full-faced helm.

“Oh?” she asked as they drew nearer. “Are you the landowners?”

“We are,” the woman answered, drawing her hood back.

Flavia chuckled a little as a woman that had only been described to her revealed herself, Idallia Rommel standing before the Khan with a determined set to her features as the harsh north wind blew her perfectly braided light purple hair about her face.

“I’ve been waiting for you to show up, Rommel,” Flavia declared, smiling predatorily as she turned to the clerk.

“Leave us,” she barked at the boy.

“Wait,” Idallia said, stopping the clerk mid-step. “We require a witness for this.”

“Khan Flavia!” Idallia declared, drawing herself up to her full height. “As the majority landowner of the city of Silva in Eastern Regna Ferox, and a citizen of said nation I hereby challenge you for the title of East Khan!”

Resisting the urge to laugh Flavia nodded, grinning at the smaller woman.

“It’s highly irregular to challenge the reigning Khan this close to the tournament,” she said. “But very well. I accept your challenge. I assume the quiet one’s your second?”

Idallia nodded as the man behind her stepped forward, pulling the cloak off of his sinister black armor and casting it into the wind.

“I will be your opponent,” he declared, drawing his sword. “I am Maris of the Rommel clan.”

This time Flavia did snicker, shaking her head.

“Boy, I stood toe-to-toe against the Conqueror in Valm,” she said warningly. “I stood against the Deadlords on Mount Origin, not to mention was part of the party that personally killed the Dark Dragon. What hope do you think you have!?”

“I know,” Maris said, sinking into a ready-stance. “I was there.”

“Then you know you’re about to get hurt,” Flavia snarled, launching herself forward.

Maris chuckled beneath his helm, bringing his huge sword up to block Flavia’s blow. The Khan grinned savagely as she knocked him back with brute strength, lashing out with a kick to his armored mid-section for good measure.

As Flavia brought her foot down, preparing to launch herself forward again she found herself flying backwards. She hit the ground and rolled, coughing. Glancing down at her chest-plate she saw a huge dent.

Maris growled, stalking forward with heavy, sure footfalls.

As Flavia struggled back to her feet she marveled at the fact that she hadn’t even seen him move.

“Ah, to be young again,” she coughed, a small line of blood running down her chin.

Something in her chest had been ruptured by that blow. Flavia could only wonder in awe what kind of monster this man was.

“Youth is wasted on the young,” she grunted, wiping the blood off her chin with the back of her hand and raising her sword again.

“And Regna Ferox is wasted on you barbarians!” Maris snarled, throwing himself forward this time.

They traded blows, Flavia slowly giving ground as she struggled to parry his weapon. Each attack was like being hit by a hammer, and her arms were slowly beginning to go numb.

_Stupid, lazy woman skipping training_ , she admonished herself. _This is what you get._

With a strange sense of clarity Flavia realized that she was outclassed. There was no way she was going to win this fight. It had probably been foolish to accept their challenge, but there was no doubt in her mind that this monster would have killed her even if she had declined.

She yelped as Maris’ blade bit into her thigh, forcing her to one knee. She grasped at the injury as he withdrew, trying to hold the wound together as her blood poured out onto the stones beneath her.

“That was the artery that supplies blood to your leg,” the helmed knight spat. “You’ll be dead within minutes. Unless you yield.”

Flavia laughed, tearing a strip off of her kilt and tying it around the injury. It wouldn’t completely stop the bleeding, but at least she was less likely to slip in her own blood this way.

“I don’t think you know how things work in the north, boy,” she growled, pushing herself up using Ragnell as a crutch. “You want my throne? You gotta kill me.”

“I can do that,” the armored man practically purred.

Flavia grinned again, holding her sword in a way she’d seen Basilio’s champion Lon’qu do before; it was a defensive stance, feet spread shoulder-width apart and both hands holding the weapon out back at her shoulder so the blade extended horizontally near her face. It stung to put her weight equally on her wounded leg, but this stance wouldn’t work if she didn’t.

Maris stomped forward again, bringing his blade up low in an attempt to disembowel Flavia, but the Khan spun, lashing out horizontally at the knight’s neck. She felt the sacred blade bite, and she let out a little laugh as the Rommel boy fell backwards, his helm flying away.

Flavia pressed her attack, stomping down on his armored ankle and bringing her sword down to-

With a sound like the tolling of a bell Ragnell was torn from her grip, sent flying away into the distance as Maris rose, bringing his empty fist back to strike again.

Khan Flavia closed her eyes as his fist hit her shoulder with all the strength of a runaway cart, crushing her armor and collar bone and knocking her back down to her knees.

She looked up and grinned, more blood running down her chin as she coughed.

Maris glared back down at her, his eyes bloodshot and his skin an unhealthy, corpse-like ashen grey. Dark black lines spread up his face from beneath his collar, similar to the red lines through his armor. She chuckled a little as Maris turned, moving to pick up Ragnell and studying it in his gauntleted fist.

“Now I get it…” Flavia coughed. “This isn’t your strength at all. You’re just leeching his leftovers-”

The rest of Flavia’s taunt was cut off as Maris roared, thrusting the sacred Valmese blade through her chest.

Flavia let out a little gasp as the air left her body, grinning up at Maris all the while. All she could think was _this is what I get for holding onto it for so long._ A cold wind blew across the training ground, tossing her thick blonde mane about her shoulders. She sucked in a shuddering breath, ignoring the searing agony in her chest as she inhaled the scent of her homeland one last time.

“They’ll come for you…” she managed to choke out around the blood bubbling up in her throat. “And… when t-they do… I’ll be… laughing… in hell…”

“I’m counting on it,” Maris growled around the fangs invading his mouth.

With a vicious kick the knight knocked Flavia off the sword, the Khan falling backwards with a pained grunt. Maris stepped forward, bringing Ragnell down again. And again. And again, until Flavia’s last breath escaped her body and her dead eyes still grinned up at the northern sky. With a frustrated snarl Maris realized she’d never screamed in pain.

And still she smiled her damned confident smile.

Maris rose and tossed Ragnell aside, sweeping the lank light purple hair out of his eyes as he turned his baleful gaze on the clerk standing, shaking with tears in his eyes next to Idallia. His sister stood, staring rooted to the spot with wide, unbelieving eyes at the corpse of Khan Flavia cooling on the stone training ground. She retched, doubling over as she voided her stomach’s contents all over the floor of the training ground.

“Go spread the news,” Maris growled. “The warriors of Eastern Regna Ferox fight for Khan Idallia in the coming tournament. Anything less will be met with death.”


	15. Chapter 15

The Longfort was a relic of an age when war and strife were far more widespread than they were during the present time. Constructed by the Altean royalty to act as a barrier between them and the barbarian tribes of the north and then captured by said tribes centuries later, the Longfort was a testament to the wounds of the past. It was a towering edifice, stretching the length of the continent and separating the southern lands from the frozen northern forests of Regna Ferox. In the last hundred years or so, though, the Longfort had consistently become more of a peaceful symbol as the continuous warfare became limited to smaller border-skirmishes, its gates open now more often than they closed.

Being posted as the Longfort’s Wall Warden was a coveted position, usually held by a close relative of the reigning Khan. Raimi had earned her position as Warden, though, under the rule of her Aunt’s rival, the previous Khan Basilio. He’d been so impressed with her skills and leadership potential he’d appointed her almost on the spot during the Khan-Meet ten years ago. It had been an honor. A blessing.

But at times like these, it felt like a curse.

Holding the tarnished, ancient golden blade Ragnell in her hands, Raimi felt a pain she’d only felt once before, when her home village had been burned to the ground by bandits. Outwardly, though, she was the same cold, ruthless warrior that she always was; the same Warden that her men needed her to be.

“I see,” she said evenly.

She was in the Longfort’s central command room on the Ylissean border, surrounded by her lieutenants and their aides. A messenger had arrived from the capital, bearing new orders for her.

And the sword. Her Aunt’s sword, taken from Valm back during the war so long ago…

“This is… this is an outrage!” one of her lieutenants growled.

“The Ylisseans have gone too far this time!” another added.

“We all knew this would happen!” one of the older ones sighed. “As soon as they quelled Plegia and Valm they were bound to turn on us, too.”

“Like hell!” one of the younger lieutenants snapped. “We’re allies! There’s no way Exalt Chrom would have condoned this!”

“Enough!” Raimi shouted above them.

“We’re not really going to follow these orders, are we?”

Raimi glanced back at the table covered in an old cloth map of the Longfort and the terrain around it. Sitting atop the map were their new orders, directly from Khan Idallia.

_“Close the border. Repel any and all invaders. None are to enter or leave Regna Ferox. All dissenters are to be executed.”_

“We don’t have a choice,” Raimi spat. “Our laws are clear. Idallia is Khan. Close the gates, increase the guards posted and make preparations for a siege.”

There was silence for a moment before one of Raimi’s oldest subordinates, Trida, limped forward, the scarred old man giving her a piercing glare.

“There’s always the option of you becoming Khan,” he said, his voice carrying no hint that this was a suggestion.

“We have our orders,” Raimi repeated, stepping away from the table. “I will not do anything more to disturb the Khan-meet.”

She stopped in the doorway, her grip tightening on Ragnell’s hilt until her knuckles went white beneath her thick armor.

“But once the Khan-meet is over…” she said, trailing off.

She didn’t need to finish her statement. All of the men and women present knew what she would say. The promise of impending violence in her voice made it obvious.

All of the assembled Lieutenants grinned ferociously at their Warden’s promise. Weather they fought for or against the new Khan, as long as they got to fight they would be happy. That was just their way of life.

* * *

To the south, in northern Ylisse, Arya let out a sneeze and groaned, rubbing her running nose and bundling up a little tighter beneath her new travelling coat. She had never been any further north than Themis; it got cold there during winter, but never this cold. She could see her breath! Her hands and feet were numb, even through her thick gloves and socks!

Galle seemed equally displeased with the cold weather, glowering as he pulled the thick scarf he was wearing a little higher on his shoulders. Mari and Van seemed to be unaffected, though, both still wandering around with their coats open and their usual travelling clothes underneath.

Robin’s Shepherds were travelling north now, after meeting with Frederick in Southtown. The older tactician had been revitalized by the information the big knight had brought him, urging them towards the Longfort as fast as they could move. They had just spent another day walking and the sun was beginning to set. At the front of the group Robin gave an irritated sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“Curse these shorter winter days,” he grumbled. “Alright, we’ll break here for tonight! Off the road, draw some water and start a fire! Not you, Arya! You’ve got meditating to do.”

The girl in question gave a defeated sigh as the other young tacticians around her grinned and began setting up the camp. As Van passed he even gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

“But it’s so cold!” she complained. “How am I supposed to focus?”

Robin shrugged, patting her on the shoulder as well and giving her a grin of his own as he passed her.

“Think of it like tapping mana lines in Plegia,” he suggested. “You really think you’ll be able to stop and focus on a battlefield?”

Arya sighed again as he left her behind, trusting that she would follow his instruction as he went about setting up the camp.

Even though Robin preferred to travel light, at this time of year the tents were a necessary evil. You simply couldn’t sleep outdoors without one in this cold, and even with one it was a pain. The only saving grace was that he still got to share a tent with Lucina, who was honestly like a human-furnace in the colder months.

Grinning at the thought, he joined his wife in erecting their modest tent, the same off-green colored canvas as the rest of the group’s. Arya and the other young tacticians all shared one, Owain and Severa had one of their own, and the others usually bunched up in the remaining two. Except for Kowrowa and Ita, who preferred to shift into their wolf forms and sleep snuggled up with Anna’s draft horse.

He glanced up as Lucina pulled the poles up into position, her face a concentrated frown as she struggled to slot them all together. Robin stepped forward, smiling as he held one in place, letting her move around to the other side and properly anchor that one. She did so with a grateful smile, and the tent was set up in no time.

Robin groaned, lazily tossing his pack into the small tent and stretching his arms above his head. He jumped a little when Lucina prodded him in the ribs frowning with one eyebrow raised slightly.

“What?” Robin asked, wilting guiltily.

“You know what,” she said, crossing her arms.

With a sigh the tactician’s shoulders drooped. He ducked into the tent, picking up his discarded pack and setting it carefully off to the side before placing Lucina’s, which she helpfully passed to him, next to it. Then he laid out their bedroll, placing the hard, lumpy pillows carefully atop the end that their heads would rest at. Finally, he placed the small oil lamp on the opposite side of the tent as their packs, making sure it had oil in it before finally stepping back out into the deepening twilight.

“Happy now?” he asked, spreading his hands a little.

Lucina responded by smiling radiantly and rising up onto her toes to plant a small kiss on his lips.

“Thank you, dear,” she said.

Robin grinned a little as they both moved to where Van was struggling to light a fire without the use of magic in the center of the small, impromptu campsite.

Robin stole a covert glance at his wife as they approached the soon-to-be fire. Even after so many years together she still looked almost exactly the same as when they had met; slightly older, her face a little more lined, but she still held herself the in the same confident, regal air that she had when she had been masquerading as ‘Marth’ and he had been an amnesiac with two days’ worth of memories. Of course, after so much fighting in such a short space of time, in Valm and Plegia, they both had their share of scars, too. Robin more so than Lucina, of course.

“Let’s go on a vacation once this is over,” Robin suggested suddenly.

“What?” Lucina asked.

“Seriously,” he persisted. “You, me and Emm. Anna’s family owns a resort in the Southern Islands, right? We can sit back, relax, spend some time as a family.”

Lucina just stared at him blankly for a moment. This wasn’t the first time that his incredible leaps of logic or thought processes had brought her up short. After a moment her face grew into a tired smile as she nodded.

“That sounds like a lovely idea,” she said eventually. “I’m sure Emm would love to see the beach.”

Robin grinned, wrapping his hand around his wife’s own gloved one.

“Ah, the beach,” Severa grumbled as she and Owain walked past them to the fire. “Sounds nice.”

Owain gave them an apologetic grin as they passed, and Robin and Lucina both chuckled.

“Well then, why don’t we all go?” Robin suggested. “After all of this it would be nice to take a break.”

Van perked up from where he was still kneeling next to the struggling fire, grinning and laughing.

“A tropical vacation?” he asked. “Now that’s motivation!”

“I won’t turn down a free vacation,” Anna added, her head emerging from the interior of her wagon.

“Oh! Oh! Sandcastle! I want to build a sandcastle!” Fae practically shouted as she ran into the central area.

Galle and Mari followed, the Plegian tactician glancing down at the smaller Chon’sinian woman.

“Wanna go to the beach?” he asked brusquely.

Mari glanced up at him, the ghost of a smile playing across her usually impassive features before she finally gave a slight nod. Galle shrugged, looking away as he tried to hide his own grin.

“Guess we’re in,” he muttered.

Lucina’s grip shifted a little in his hand, and Robin glanced down to see her smiling approvingly up at him.

“Then it’s settled,” he declared.

A small cheer went up from the assembled Shepherds.

“I suppose we should ask Tharja if she and her mages want to join us?” Robin suggested to Lucina. “It’s the least we could do after getting them wrapped up in all of this.”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “We rendezvous with them tomorrow. Ask her then.”

As she spoke she sidled up to him, wrapping her arm around his. 

After the jubilation at the promise of a tropical vacation died down Van glared at his failed fire and rolled his eyes. With a flick of his wrist he lit it magically, the damp wood crackling as the magic flames caught almost instantly.

“Sir Frederick would kill me if he saw that,” Van muttered as the others began to crowd around the warmth of the fire.

The evening progressed as they usually did after that. Dinner was served; a thick and hearty stew made from the dwindling supplies they’d bought a week before. Chess was played between the tacticians, and firewine was drunk to stave off the cold. Eventually a shivering Arya trudged towards the fire, the aching growl from her stomach finally proving too much of a distraction in her attempted meditations.

Finally, they all retired for the evening, Robin and Lucina being one of the last pairs to make their way back to their tent. Severa had been almost ecstatic about the promise of a beach vacation, and had talked Lucina’s ear off making plans for their group while Owain and Robin watched on.

Now, laying in their bedroll together with numerous blankets and Robin’s coat thrown over top for extra warmth, Lucina sighed and snuggled herself closer to her husband, resting her head on his shoulder and throwing an arm over his chest. Robin automatically moved to wrap his arm around her, and she let out another contented sigh.

It was somewhat strange the way Lucina had been so clingy the last couple of weeks; usually she was far more reserved with public displays of affection. He had been waiting years now, watching her slowly open up and relax. It had been a slow process, especially given what she and the others had been through. She wasn’t just his wife; she had been the Ylissean Exalt in her own doomed timeline, the ruler of a people sentenced to a slow death at the hands of Grima and his Risen. Finally winning peace in the past, she and her comrades had eventually realized they were stranded and opted to integrate into the peaceful time period. It had taken some adjustment, but Robin had been there for her the entire time. The birth of their daughter had certainly driven home for Lucina that this wasn’t, nor would it ever be, her forsaken future. But the timing of her finally seeming to relax…

“Are you okay?” Robin asked into the top of her head. “You’ve been very… uh… loving, lately.”

Lucina scoffed, shifting a little against him.

“I am fine, dear,” she assured him.

After a moment in which they both lay still, the only sound the crackling of the dying fire outside and the soft murmur of the night conversations in the other, nearby tents, she continued.

“I am… happy,” she said at last. “We are going home. This, all of this business with the Rommels, is nearly done. I… I have not looked forward to going home like this since I was a child. Just having a home that I look so much forward to returning to is…”

She trailed off, and Robin nodded his understanding. It was a new sensation for him, too. He had slightly less than a decades’ worth of memories, despite being nearly three times that old now. After his vagrant lifestyle of hopping from one battlefield or quest to the next, after waking up in the field with Chrom and Lissa standing over him, it felt nice to be returning home.

He shifted, planting a loving kiss on the top of his wife’s head.

“I would also very much like to see Emm again,” Lucina sighed. “She looks to have gotten… so much bigger…”

Robin let out a sigh of his own. Lucina often joined him when he checked in on Aversa and Emm with his scrying hexes. It was rough, having been away from home for so long, but at least Emm was being cared for. And funnily enough Aversa was showing a surprisingly maternal side that Robin hadn’t known existed in his sister, something he would clearly need to tease her about later. But the thought of finally wrapping this up and getting to go home filled him with so much anticipation he doubted he would even be able to sleep.

“She looks just like you,” he said, smiling a little. “We’ll have to bring her some souvenirs from the Coliseum to say sorry for being gone so long.”

“Indeed,” Lucina agreed.

Their conversation broke off as Lucina let out a tired yawn.

“We’d best get some sleep,” Robin suggested. “Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”

* * *

The next morning the Shepherds were up bright and early, as the sun’s first rays were beginning to peak the horizon. There was a lot of tired grumbling as they shuffled around the camp, their breath misting in front of their faces in the frigid air, but they each had their own morning routines to take care of.

Galle’s, in particular, consisted of training before breakfast. Sometimes Van or Mari joined him, more often Mari than the former Ylissean Knight Cadet, but more often than not she just liked to watch him. It had been a little strange at first, the Chon’sinian girl insisting on sitting in on his training. But after the first few sessions she began to speak up, offering advice on his stances and movements, helping him improve minute details that were the flaw of being mostly self-taught. It was because of Mari’s helpful insights that Galle had become confident enough to utilize a mixture of swordplay, unarmed strikes and magic on the battlefield, flowing between the three.

This day was like any other in that respect; Mari sat on a log, just outside the camp, watching as Galle ran through the drills he’d created for himself. He was focusing on his unarmed skills that morning, striking with closed fists and knife hands at unseen enemies, his bare torso sheening with a coat of perspiration from his efforts despite the early morning chill.

Of course, Mari had always insisted that he train shirtless. So she could easier watch his movements, she insisted. To help with his temperature regulation and flexibility, she insisted. Galle had simply taken to pointedly ignoring the little blush she got every time he pulled his shirt off.

He threw a few more punches and kicks at phantom enemies before letting out a tired sigh and rotating his shoulder a little. His arm had been fully healed after he’d used his trump card in Saiqat, and he’d even started re-applying the tattooed magic circles and lines onto his arm. But that was the problem; fresh tattoos stung. He ran his hand over the puckered scars and the swollen red flesh around the fresh ink, marveling at how fast he was finishing the job this time. It had taken him almost six months the first time he’d done it; now he was half done, and it had barely been one month.

“Does it still hurt?” Mari asked.

Galle smirked a little, dropping his hand.

“It stings a little,” he admitted. “What, worried about me?”

“Always,” Mari said, totally serious.

Galle sighed, shaking his head a little.

“You know it’s no fun teasing you sometimes.”

Mari stood slowly, a knowing grin rising to her usually expressionless face. Galle had to admit, even a little grin like that made her look absolutely radiant. When she smiled? It struck him speechless.

“Far be it from me to deprive my Galle of his fun,” she said playfully.

“You have been spending far too much time with a certain red-haired Ylissean lately, haven’t you Princess?” Galle quipped, closing the distance between them.

Mari grinned shyly, reaching up and wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning closer still.

“I think I’ve been spending too much time around a certain Plegian boy,” she corrected him.

“Hey, Galle! You out here!? Up for a little- OH DEAR SWEET NAGA, GUYS!”

Galle and Mari practically leapt apart as Van shouted, spinning on his heel and making a sound halfway between laughing and retching.

“C’mon, it’s too early!” he complained. “At least put up, like, a sign or something as warning! And why are you half-naked, Galle!? It feels like it’s about to start snowing any second now!”

Mari’s face turned red, her eyes wide as she spluttered, struggling to compose herself. She settled for darting off, brushing past the two men as she practically ran back to camp.

“I will prepare breakfast!” she said as she bolted.

Galle frowned, directing his ire on the Ylissean man bouncing his odd sword-staff on his shoulder. Van gave a shrug, grinning sheepishly.

“Sorry?” he tried.

“I hope you came out here looking for a sparring partner,” Galle growled, reaching for his sword. “Because I’m about to beat the crap out of you.”

Van scoffed, twirling his sword-staff as they began to circle each other in the small practice space.

“You know, you and the Princess make a great couple,” he chuckled.

“You’re just jealous I got a girlfriend first,” Galle seethed.

“Ooh, low-blow,” Van laughed. “Alright, I’d say I’m motivated now. Have at you.”

* * *

The Shepherds finally hit the road just after dawn broke. Robin set a decent pace, eager now to be done with all this business and go on his vacation. Some of the others grumbled, Van and Galle chief among them as they limped along with the group, but everyone felt the same way. They were ready to be done with this business.

Severa walked next to Owain and Brady with a little more bounce in her step than usual, secretly excited at the prospect of getting to see Noire again. When the world had been saved all of the Shepherds that had come back from the future had gone their separate ways, and many of them had found it to be something of a shock to suddenly have the people they had spent almost every day with since childhood suddenly gone. Just as Owain had been excited when they had picked up Brady in Themis, Severa was excited at the prospect of seeing her friend again. The time they had spent together in Grima’s Fall had been too short.

They probably wouldn’t get to spend much more time together again this time around, either, but just getting to see the timid archer-turned-mage always lifted her spirits.

Unbidden a slight grin rose to her face at the thought of what was waiting for them once the last of the fighting in Regna Ferox was finished.

A tropical vacation! Better, a tropical vacation with Robin footing the bill!

“Yer smilin’ that dangerous smile again,” Brady grumbled.

The hunched priest was watching her warily out of the corner of his eye, his perpetual scowl still in place despite the years of peace-time they had been enjoying.

“Don’t like that smile,” he went on. “Means trouble. Usually for us.”

Owain laughed, cutting off Severa’s biting retort.

“All we’re missing is Inigo and it’d be just like old times!” the blonde swordsman cried. “My sword-hand thirsts at the prospect of us reunited with our allies!”

Where Severa and Brady were both bundled under their thick traveling cloaks against the cold, Owain walked around in his usual yellow clothing. Much like his father, Lon’qu, Owain had a displayed a surprising adaptability for the frigid climate of Regna Ferox, despite his heritage being Ylissean and Chon’sinian. It had irritated Severa a little at first, until she’d realized that it meant she got two cloaks to keep the cold at bay. Then she started encouraging it.

Brady scoffed, bouncing his healing staff against his shoulder a few times.

“Yeah, right. The two’a you together again I can do without. Ya always dragged me into the worst damn situations…”

“Please!” Owain laughed. “You loved our adventures! Name one time that you weren’t having as much fun as-”

“Valm,” Brady cut him off, deadpan. “Charging with Flavia an’ the Feroxi. That wasn’t fun.”

“But you did it with us! And we drank and laughed it off that night!” Owain said defensively.

“I went with you idiots because I’d just healed a gash in Inigo’s arm and pulled three arrows outta your sorry hide!” Brady grumbled. “Swear to Naga… Can’t leave you idiots alone fer a second…”

“For once, we are in agreement,” Severa sighed. “Remember Origin Peak? When the two of them got cut off from the main force and we had to go and rescue them?”

“Heh, yeah!” Brady guffawed. “Man, Morgan was pissed. Ain’t ever seen Yarne fight like that before, though. And the time-”

“Down, sword hand!” Owain shrieked, cutting the other two off. “Argh! I can’t control it!”

He held his wrist firmly downwards, shaking and making a scene as he attempted to ‘restrain his sword hand’. Severa and Brady sighed in unison, exchanging a glance.

“Do you want to, or shall I?” she asked exasperatedly.

“Ladies first,” Brady shrugged, bouncing his staff again with a grin.

Severa stepped over to Owain, her hand flashing up and slapping the back of his head in one smooth movement. Owain blinked a few times, quieting as the trio continued to walk.

“Really,” she muttered, taking his ‘sword hand’ in hers. “All that sword hand stuff doesn’t embarrass you, but old war stories do?”

“Owain Dark does not get embarrassed,” he muttered back, pouting.

“Then why are you blushing?” Severa asked, quirking a brow.

Owain grumbled wordlessly, facing away from her again as she and Brady laughed.

* * *

Six robed and hooded people stood in the shade of a great pine tree, waiting at a crossroad in Northern Ylisse for Robin and his Shepherds, uniformly shivering miserably in the cold mountain air. In the distance the mages could make out the shape of the Longfort, their next destination, stark against the horizon.

Tharja and her Dark Mage acolytes were early, but wherever Robin was concerned the older Dark Mage always was a little excitable.

Beneath her heavy black hood Noire sniffled miserably, the cold weather making her nose run and her cheeks hurt. She wouldn’t complain, though; after everything she and her friends had been through in their own future and then here in the past fighting Grima she was tougher than that.

Or so she liked to tell herself, anyway, she reasoned with another sniffle.

Fortunately, she wasn’t the only one not faring well in the cold mountain air; the other acolytes, with the exception of the unshakable Badru, were sniffling and shivering just as much as she was. Asim and Lateef were lingering a little closer to each other than usual, attempting to share their body warmth, while Femi shuddered beneath her travel cloak and her robes. Even Tharja herself was frowning a little more than usual, but their teacher didn’t sniffle or shiver. She was far too composed for that.

Noire couldn’t help but smile a little at the thought of getting to see her friends, Severa, Owain and Brady again. Little Arya, too; she had taken quite a shining to Robin’s new apprentice, and the two had become good friends despite the years separating them.

“Grima it is cold!” Asim finally blurted. “How do the Ylisseans and Feroxi live like this!?”

“Usually indoors, I would assume,” Femi said, her voice shuddering. “Next to a big, roaring fire…”

“Stop complaining,” Tharja snapped. “You call yourselves Dark Mages? It’s only a little cold.”

Noire resisted the urge to smirk as her mother turned, the sway of her robes revealing the old travelling clothes Robin had bought for her when they had travelled Regna Ferox after the first war with Plegia and Gangrel, rather than her usual body-suit. Even the veteran Dark Mage herself was no match for the forces of nature, it seemed.

Noire sniffled again, glancing over her shoulder at the Longfort. She and the others had only seen it briefly as they had passed through on the return trip from Valm; after traveling back from the future Noire herself had ended up in Regna Ferox, so she hadn’t needed to pass through it before the war. She was admittedly curious about it; a structure that old, made for the specific purpose of war, would surely hold some interesting dark resonances.

The sound of beating wings made the six mages look up as a large dark raven descended, perching in the trees above their heads and looking down at them. Noire instantly recognized her mother’s familiar, and with a large smile completely out of place on her usually serious face Tharja turned towards the southern-most road.

“They’re here,” she said, drawing her hood back.

Noire squinted, a small grin of her own breaking out when she saw the shadows in the distance coalescing into distinct shapes. People around a wagon, marching quickly towards them and to the Longfort in the distance.

As the got closer one of the people marching leapt up onto the wagon, hanging off of it with one hand and waving.

“Look alive, mages!” Robin shouted. “We’re not stopping! Fall in!”

* * *

As Robin approached the Longfort, a small column of warriors, soldiers and mages at his back, he couldn’t help but feel a rush of nostalgia. If the circumstances had been better it would almost have been like the first time he’d come here, with Chrom and Lissa and the old Shepherds so long ago now.

As they came out of the mountain pass and began the descent to the open gates of the Longfort Tharja and Lucina came alongside him. The scent of the forests of Regna Ferox blew past them on the wind, the cold gust making Tharja grimace and wrap her cloak tighter around her shoulders. Robin smirked, shaking his head a little. After so long in the north he barely noticed it.

Lucina slowed at his side, watching the walls of the towering fortress intently.

“Something’s wrong,” she said, frowning.

Robin and Tharja both looked up now, too, and something was indeed amiss. A flurry of activity had broken out on the ramparts, and it looked like a number of Feroxi soldiers were beginning to collect in the open gate.

As the Shepherds approached Robin strode forward a little, the Wall Warden and his old comrade from the wars in Valm and Plegia, Raimi, stepped forward in her full, thick armor.

“Hold,” she ordered, crossing her arms.

Robin quirked his head a little. She was acting strange. Raimi was always a serious and dour woman, similar in temperament to Lon’qu, but she seemed visibly flustered. Angry. Robin immediately felt his stomach clench up as a cold hand of fear gripped his chest. He couldn’t help but wonder when she’d started to carry a sword, and why that sword’s pommel looked so familiar.

“Raimi,” he called. “What’s going on?”

“By…” she paused, taking a deep breath before continuing with a sour look on her face. “By order of Khan Idallia, the border is closed.”

“No…” Robin gasped, his eyes widening.

“Unless, of course…” Raimi went on, stepping forward and pulling a familiar golden sword out of the sheathe on her back. “You best me in single combat. Then, by our laws, you may pass. Just like last time.”

Robin looked first at the Feroxi Warden, then at the strangely silent squad at her back. Judging from the tense silence coming from the warriors, none of them were exactly happy about this either. He looked back at the stunned expressions on Lucina and Tharja’s faces, all three of them seemingly lost.

“Raimi, what’s happened?” he asked, stepping forward again. “Talk to me, dammit!”

The Warden snarled, brandishing Ragnell and pointing it directly at Robin’s throat.

“Draw your blade or retreat!” she warned. “On my honor the only way you’re getting through this fort is over me!”

Robin stumbled back a few seconds, thinking quickly. The Rommels hadn’t been that far ahead of them; he knew they would eventually make for Regna Ferox, but…

“What happened to Flavia?” he asked, his voice low.

“I’m holding her sword and taking orders from that merchant bitch,” Raimi spat. “What do you think?”

Robin nodded slowly, swallowing. As he stepped forward again his hand dropped to his sword’s hilt, but he froze when Lucina stepped forward.

“Lady Raimi, please!” she said. “This is foolishness!”

“Foreigners have trampled enough of our laws,” Raimi ground out. “This is one I’m not budging on.”

The two women glared at each other for a moment before Lucina nodded, drawing Falchion.

“Then I would face you as Robin’s second,” she declared.

“Lucina, what-” Robin started, trailing off when Lucina turned.

“Please,” she said in a quiet voice. “You have already done much on our journey. Let me do this.”

Robin swallowed and nodded, stepping back with Tharja. The rest of the Shepherds and Dark Mages crowded around, Arya moving to the front to stand with Robin. She looked up at him curiously, and he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Watch closely,” he said to her. “This is your fencing instructor’s true strength.”

Lucina tossed her travelling cloak to one side, Mari scrambling to pick up the garment for her old teacher as the time-traveler and the Warden faced off.

“This brings me no joy, Raimi,” Lucina declared, saluting her with her longsword. “But know that we are pressed for time, so I will not hold back.”

“Bah, you’re just like your father,” Raimi spat. “You Ylisseans all talk too much!”

With that Raimi rushed her, holding Ragnell in a high grip. Robin had only ever seen the older woman fight with a spear, but judging by the way she held Ragnell she was no slouch with a sword, either.

But Lucina was Chrom’s daughter, and they were both prodigies of swordsmanship.

Lucina caught Raimi’s first blow, turning the older woman aside and letting her momentum carry her past while she danced around her. Raimi spun, leading with Ragnell, but Lucina stepped back, striking upwards with Falchion one-handed and opening a deep furrow on Raimi’s pauldron. The Warden growled, charging again with Ragnell held at a mid-guard this time, but Lucina was like water, flowing around the blow and running Falchion’s razor sharp blade along Raimi’s weaker-armored side. Blood glinted on Falchion’s blade as the two women both turned, Raimi’s face a pained scowl. Lucina wasn’t even breathing heavily.

“Do you yield?” she asked.

“Like I said,” Raimi grunted, bringing Ragnell back up to a mid-guard. “You want through, you go over me.”

Lucina gave a barely perceptible sigh before darting in low, beneath Raimi’s guard, and stopping Falchion’s tip just short of piercing Raimi’s throat. A small trail of blood fell from where the blade’s point touched her flesh, and Raimi chuckled.

“Robin beat me quicker,” she said. “Meaner, too. Knocked my ass into the dirt.”

Lucina slowly lowered her blade and stepped back, Raimi sighing and rubbing the small cut on her throat.

“We’ve grown since then,” Lucina said.

“Yeah,” Raimi sighed. “Come inside and I’ll… explain what’s happened. And welcome home.”

* * *

Arya glanced around the crowded hall as Robin’s Shepherds milled about, unsure what to make of the news they had been given. Robins tactician students, both current and former, had chosen one corner of a long table at the end of the room near the great wooden doors leading to the ramparts

Khan Flavia, current Khan Regnant and ruler of Regna Ferox, had been assassinated by the Rommels.

She felt a shudder pass up her spine at the thought that the people who had hurt her in the past had such incredible reach. Wondering if she would truly be safe anywhere she glanced up at Galle sitting next to her and gave a slight, involuntary giggle.

Galle, the moody tactician that had been almost like an older brother to her for the last few months, had fallen asleep on Mari’s shoulder. The other tactician looked caught between being incredibly embarrassed and lovingly comfortable with her boyfriend sleeping on her, more than likely leaning more towards embarrassed with Van snickering at the sight now, too.

Four of the Dark Mage acolytes came over to where the tacticians were sitting, Noire opting to remain with Severa and Owain instead.

“You guys feel a little left out of the loop, too?” Asim asked.

Arya and Van both glanced up, Mari blushing even more furiously as she averted her gaze.

“Yeah, little bit,” Van said with a grin. “Pull up a chair. Get comfy.”

Asim, Lateef and Femi all did so while Badru crossed his arms and took up position behind them. The sounds of chairs being pulled over rough stone floors apparently disturbed Galle, and with a snort he shot up.

“Sorry,” Lateef chuckled. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Galle blinked a few times, wiping at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand before glancing questioningly at the still blushing Mari. With a shrug he leaned back in his own chair.

“It’s fine. We have orders yet?” he asked.

“Nope,” Femi sighed. “And all the others are busy moping, so…”

“That’s because they all knew Khan Flavia personally. They all fought together, and she even went with them in the final battle against Grima. She was… a Shepherd, and they’re taking it personally.”

Everyone looked up at Fae’s sudden appearance, and the manakete grinned sheepishly. The tone of her voice, though, was a mirror of the sadness emanating from the other side of the room. The small group sat quietly for a moment before Van spoke up.

“I never met her,” he said, almost reverently. “But the Knight Cadets would tell stories about how she and Khan Basilio faced down an entire division of Walhart’s best riders, and walked away. It was a cautionary tale for us not to underestimate unmounted troops.”

“I only spoke to her a little,” Galle sighed. “Back in Silva. All I can remember thinking is ‘ _this_ is the leader of Regna Ferox?’ But then I saw how she led the people, and inspired them just with her presence… It made me think, you know?”

Mari nodded from his side, a little more composed now.

“She taught me much,” the Chon’sinian tactician said simply.

“She was always fair with Plegians,” Femi said in a small voice. “She traded with the Plegian Companies when no one else would. I guess we owe a lot to her in the desert.”

“I never met her,” Arya admitted. “But she sounds… amazing.”

“She was,” Fae said sadly.

* * *

“I can’t believe I let this happen,” Robin groaned, putting his face in his hands.

“This isn’t your fault,” Lucina said comfortingly.

“I could have killed him at least twice,” Robin snapped. “But I let him live to try and get to whoever was pulling his strings. Now…”

He, Lucina, Tharja, Raimi and one of her lieutenants, an old and scarred man she had introduced as Trida, were sitting around a wide, circular table in the Warden’s command room, occupying one corner of the massive keep above the Ylissean Gate. Robin sat slouched in his chair, head resting in his hands as the full enormity of what Maris had done, and what he was planning to do, finally sunk in.

“It’ll be war,” Robin said eventually. “If he succeeds and takes power as the Khan Regnant for his sister, it will plunge the continent back into war.”

“He won’t live long enough,” Tharja growled dangerously.

“I agree with the mage,” Raimi added in a neutral tone. “But what do we do now? You’re the tactician. Give me a plan.”

Robin glanced up, finally dropping his hands as he sat up straight. He could mourn and blame himself later. For the first time in years he felt a stirring in his breast, a righteous anger he hadn’t felt since Valm. A spark that would ignite his rage and burn Maris’ ambitions to dust.

“We’ll go ahead,” Robin said, standing. “Maris has a small army between us and the Coliseum? We’ll cut the head off their command chain and leave them for you to clean up. Come behind us, secure the roads. Make sure the people in the villages are safe. Then join us at the Coliseum. I get the feeling he’s not out of surprises yet.”

Robin let out a heavy sigh before reaching into his coat and pulling out something wrapped in cloth, dropping the bundle to the table. With careful, deliberate movements he unwrapped it and bared a small nugget of some kind of black ore.

“I don’t know what this is,” he said finally. “But it’s heavily infused with Grima’s essence. And Maris’ entire suit of armor is made out of it.”

“What!?” Raimi shouted, slamming her palms on the table and rising to her feet.

Lucina gaped, going pale as she shied away from the nugget, switching between staring at it and at Robin in confusion. Tharja, for her part, didn’t seem surprised in the least. She just continued to glare at the little nugget the way she’d been glaring at everything else since arriving at the Longfort.

“This is why we need to stop him,” Robin declared. “I don’t know… what he’s capable of with it. I don’t want to find out.”

“So we stop him,” Raimi growled. “What are you waiting for? Get your ass back out there!”

“We came ready to fight,” Tharja reminded him.

Robin nodded, turning to look at Lucina. She met his gaze, a momentary flash of fear passing through her eyes before her expression hardened and she nodded as well.

“Grima is dead,” she said eventually. “Whatever this is… Maris is just feeding on his leftovers like a parasite.”

“So we stop him,” Robin nodded. “Before he can hurt anyone else close to us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of focus on our couples in this chapter before we dive back into the serious stuff. Yes, the joke with Van has been done a thousand times before. You know what? I like the cock-block joke. I do. It’s a little tropey, but I feel like it’s something that actually happens in the world. I know it happens, I’ve done it and had it done a thousand times.


	16. Chapter 16

Vaike let out a great yawn as he sat up in his cot, blinking groggily and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He found himself momentarily disoriented as he failed to recognize the room right away, but once his tired mind woke properly he gave a feral grin.

_Today’s the day!_ He thought excitedly, jumping to his feet and starting to get dressed.

Or as dressed as he ever did, anyway; all he really did was pull his boots on and strap the leather plates he wore on his legs and off-hand arm on, before putting the steel gut-protector he wore on over his belt. The last step was to put his steel collar on, the armor that had stopped him from being beheaded so many times in the past. With another, more wistful grin her ran a finger over all the scars on the silvery steel, each a memory of a brush with death, before locking it into place. Nodding in satisfaction he spiked his hair up as the last step before grabbing his axe and stepping out into the common room area he was sharing with the rest of the Shepherds dispatched to Regna Ferox to quell the coup attempt.

Seeing as they would all be fighting on the Western side during the conflict Basilio had arranged billeting for them in his half of the Coliseum’s facilities; a small building near the outer wall of the Western hemisphere. It was comfortable enough, similar to the Shepherds’ barracks in Ylisse in a lot of ways. Mostly because it was full of Shepherds, though.

Lon’qu glanced up from whatever he was reading so intently, having been put in charge of the mission. Sully was across from him with Kjelle and Cynthia, all three women attempting to keep their distance while still looking at whatever was spread out on the small table. Vaike could hear Libra outside, training with his son Inigo, and Yarne was in the small kitchen area with Miriel and Olivia preparing the squad’s breakfast.

Vaike unconsciously smiled at the sight of his wife, her hat resting on a hook near the door and her long and perfectly straight red hair, having grown out since their days fighting Plegia and Valm, tied away from her face with a ribbon at the base of her neck. She glanced over her shoulder when she heard him enter, offering him a brief smile over the rim of her spectacles before going back to… whatever she, the dancer and the bunny-boy were cooking.

It smelled good, at least.

Everyone else looked much the same, except for Kjelle who had shorn her hair even shorter and Cynthia who had also let her hair grow out.

“So kind of you to finally join us,” Lon’qu deadpanned as Vaike let out another yawn.

“’s still early, sod off,” Vaike grumbled. “What’s for breakfast?”

Lon’qu sighed, shaking his head.

“I have the match ups for the preliminary round of the tournament here,” the dour man said, “but if you’re more interested in food-”

“Well why didn’tcha say something!” Vaike said excitedly. “Gimmie!”

Sully and Cynthia both barked out laughs as the axeman leapt forward, snatching the papers up off the table. Each Khan’s camp, Eastern and Western, had their own miniature tournament to decide which fighters would be taking the position of Champions for the various roles in the main tournament, meaning of course that all of the Shepherds would have to fight each other. However, even if they lost they would still be in the Coliseum in case more… drastic measures were required to quell the Rommels. Vaike studied the papers for a second before letting out a disappointed sigh and tossing them lazily back down.

“Aw, that sucks!” he groaned. “I wanted to fight one’a you guys right off the bat!”

Kjelle laughed along with the others this time while Lon’qu sighed again.

“I’m sure you will have the chance,” he said. “Do you really think that anyone is going to beat any of us?”

“Hell no,” Vaike laughed. “All I care about’s finding out which one’a us is the strongest Shepherd!”

* * *

“I really wish I could fight, too,” Chrom groaned.

“I know, dear,” Sumia said placatingly.

“No, I really wish I could fight, too,” he repeated with greater emphasis.

“Can I fight?” Lucina piped up from her mother’s side.

“Not until you’re older, dear,” Sumia said, smiling down at her young daughter.

The royal family were in one of Basilio’s grandest guest suites, preparing for the official reception and festivities that would take place while the preliminary tournaments were held. The first tournament to be held since the world regained peace, and it was tainted by Ylissean subjects’ greed. Chrom felt that this was his responsibility to resolve, not just leave it to the Shepherds. He had even taken Falchion from the vault in his armory, just in case, but Frederick had assured him that the plan was fool-proof.

The Exalt couldn’t help but feel there was more going on beneath the calm Knight-Commander’s surface plans than he let on, but had decided against pushing the matter.

Representatives from Plegia and various Valmese territories would also be attending, and had been briefed on the situation. No doubt Virion would have his bow close at hand, and Say’ri her swords, too…

If nothing else it would be good to see the others again after so long, even if the occasion was slightly marred by all the coup business.

Chrom stood, straightening the collar of his crisp blue ceremonial dress-uniform. Rather than the robes that most previous Exalts wore Chrom had opted to wear the colors of his nation’s military; he was a military leader, anyway. It was Lissa, the voice of moderation that had been left behind in Ylisse in his stead with his youngest daughter that wore the more subdued robes that their older sister had.

“I hate this stupid suit,” Chrom groaned, pulling with one finger at the tight collar.

Sumia sighed and smiled, rising and straightening it for him.

“At least there’s no tie on this one,” she laughed.

Lucina pouted on the edge of her parents’ bed, wearing the same deep blue color as her mother did.

“I could still fight…” she muttered sulkily.

There was a knock at the door, and Cordelia stuck her head into the room.

“Your Grace, My Lady, Khan Basilio has sent for you, and Lady Maribelle is already waiting with Duke Roark,” she said formally.

Chrom nodded, making sure Falchion was securely strapped to his hip before taking Lucina’s small hand and making ready to attend the first of what was likely to be many meetings about cultural exchange. Sumia laughed, though, moving over to her old friend and straightening the collar of her dress uniform, too, before adjusting the way the small winged pin on her chest sat.

“We may be on an important diplomatic mission but that doesn’t mean you get to go formal on me,” she chuckled. “Here. You could never figure out your collar, either ‘Wing-Commander’!”

Cordelia cleared her throat and blushed as Sumia made minute adjustments before stepping back and smiling.

“Perfect!” she said happily.

“Yes, now let’s go and sit in boredom for the next twelve hours before anything interesting happens,” Chrom whispered to his daughter. “Unless we can sneak away to watch the preliminaries, first, that is.”

Lucina giggled as they approached the two Pegasus Knights, Chrom giving both women an innocent look as they narrowed their eyes at the ruler. Behind the two women Frederick was conversing with the young tactician Isaac, both men shutting down immediately when they spotted Chrom and heightening his suspicion.

* * *

“So this is Regna Ferox?” Say’ri asked, quirking her head as Virion and Cherche led her through the Coliseum. “It is… lively.”

“Yeah, isn’t it great?” Morgan laughed from next to her mother. “I love it here.”

“It is certainly loud,” General Kei’ji muttered from behind his queen and princess, the grumpy Chon’sin native glaring at everyone around them.

“That is part of the charm, cousin,” Sei’ko laughed from beside him. “Not all nations can be as demure as our homeland.”

Say’ri was in a modified version of her old battle-wear, the old lacquered plates being used over a new, slightly more formal kimono. Her old sword and Amatsu were both strapped to her hip, and the new version of her battle-wear sported ‘modesty fit for a queen’ in Kei’ji’s words, including skin-tight leggings and high-topped boots. Kei’ji wore his full military regalia, which was a full set of dark lacquered armor of a heavier design than Say’ri’s, and Sei’ko wore the plain black robes of a clerk while Morgan wore the same clothes she always did when she travelled under her black coat. Virion and Cherche were both dressed in their old battle-gear, too, although Virion had complained that it was a little tighter around the middle than he remembered.

“The people of Regna Ferox throw the most festive of festivals before their tournament,” Virion explained.  “And said people are rather rowdy once revelry starts. It may take some getting used to. Just do not drink the firewine and you will be perfectly safe.”

“Ooh, I love firewine!” Morgan groaned happily.

“After the tournament, Princess,” Sei’ko said, her smile never dropping. “And remember that we are representatives of Chon’sin here, so you must behave.”

“What are you, my mother?” Morgan muttered petulantly.

“No, but I am,” Say’ri said half-jokingly. “And I could institute a full ban on alcoholic drinks if I so desired.”

“I’ll be good,” Morgan sighed.

“My lady I wish you would reconsider spectating this event,” Kei’ji said exasperatedly. “With the coup this tournament is likely to become a bloody affair, and-”

“Yes, Kei’ji,” Say’ri sighed. “Fie, I heard you the first six times. Which is exactly why we have our swords and armor. We will be fine.”

“And I have my magic, don’t forget that!” Morgan added, grinning over her shoulder.

Kei’ji rolled his eyes, sighing as he followed the two women beside his cousin.

“Try to relax, cousin,” Sei’ko chuckled under her breath. “You used to love the festivals back home. I’m sure if we tried we could find a goldfish-scooping stall somewhere in the city for you.”

“These barbarians seem more likely to eat them than keep them as pets,” Kei’ji muttered back. “And you may mock me, but I know a certain clerk who still gets frightened by the sound of firewo-ARGH!”

Say’ri and Morgan both glanced curiously over their shoulders, Kei’ji grimacing and rubbing at the small section of his side not protected by plates as Sei’ko continued smiling. Morgan blinked a few times as she turned around, suppressing the urge to shudder. Sei’ko could still be very scary, even when she was smiling.

Especially when she was smiling.

* * *

The forests of Regna Ferox were always cold, apparently, but Arya found them almost insufferable, even compared to the Ylissean mountain ranges they had crossed to get there. Having spent her entire life either in the desert or southern Ylisse hadn’t given her any exposure to such levels of extreme cold. Ice and snow hung from the trees, giant evergreens coated in layers of white and silvery-blue as the small group of Shepherds advanced beneath the lengthening shadows as the day waned. It was almost enough to make Arya pine for her life back in the slums.

And still, she marveled as Fae skipped by her wearing her normal desert-faring clothes.

“Manaketes don’t feel the cold like we do,” Van supplied helpfully as he spotted her disbelieving face. “Weirded me out at first, too…”

Behind them Galle sneezed, groaning in displeasure as he huddled beneath his overcoat. And his tactician’s coat. And the thickest clothes he’d been able to buy. It was reassuring for Arya, knowing that she wasn’t the only miserable one.

They had passed through the Longfort a week ago now, and according to Huginn would be coming up on where the Rommel soldiers had blockaded one of the main roads to the Coliseum through the east any day now. The Dark Mages had joined them at the border, cold and miserable as well, but excited to finally be using their skills in the field for the first time, and the Wall-Warden Raimi would be leading her own soldiers after them.

Lady Tharja marched at the head of the column with Robin and Lucina, the rest trailing along behind them in no particular order as Ita and Kowrowa brought up the rear; even from the back of the group their enhanced senses would be more than enough warning if there was an ambush.

Arya cast a worried glance at her teacher at the head of the small column. At the border they had received word that Khan Flavia had been killed in a coup, and that Regna Ferox was effectively leaderless until the Khan-meet ended. If she were entirely honest, the news hadn’t meant a thing to her, but…

In the short time Arya had been his student she had seen Robin frustrated. She had seen him exhausted. She had even seen him mildly upset.

But seeing the tactician so furious had been the single most terrifying thing Arya had ever experienced.

Fae had explained that Robin and Khan Flavia had been close personal friends; during the Valm campaign they had fought together closely for an extended period of time in the resistance movement. More than that, she had been a Shepherd. The manakete had said that part, clenching her fists, as if that alone was reason enough to seek revenge.

Even the cool and aloof Lady Tharja had taken the news hard. All of the original Shepherds were looking for blood now; one of their own had been killed, and they wanted revenge.

At the head of the column Robin raised his fist, Huginn fluttering down from the trees to land on Lady Tharja’s outstretched hand. Words were exchanged before the older tactician turned and called everyone in.

“Alright, listen up,” he declared, a frown on his face. “The enemy is on the other side of these trees in the field before the Coliseum. We’re facing trained soldiers, veterans of the war with Valm, so stay on your toes. Mages to the rear, everyone else, you know your positions. Stick to the plan and don’t take any chances. Hit ‘em hard, hit ‘em fast. You get hurt, pull back immediately. Questions?”

“Are we… taking prisoners?” Van asked hesitantly.

Robin turned his gaze on his former student, his eyes taking on a regretful, sad look before hardening.

“Unless they surrender, no.”

* * *

Robin attempted to calm himself with deep breaths of the chill frozen air to no avail, his blood boiling and his mana seething the same way it had been ever since he’d learned of Flavia’s death. It was like little rivers of liquid fire beneath his skin, similar to what it had felt like back in Valm when his mind had been fractured and the aggressive and hateful parts of his personality had taken over.

In fact, it was exactly like that. Mercifully, though, the only voices in his head this time were his own.

Since a somber Raimi had given them the news at the Longfort Robin had struggled to maintain his composure, feeling his control ebbing. It wasn’t as strong as the impulses back in Valm; his mind was whole again, so the murderous intent that came with being part of Grima’s bloodline was easier to control, but if he were entirely honest there was a part of him that didn’t want to control it.

“I should have killed that bastard when I had the chance,” he growled to himself.

“You could not know,” Lucina said comfortingly from his side. “You did the right thing at the time. You always do.”

Tharja nodded her agreement, silently laying a hand on Robin’s shoulder from his other side. The three of them would be the spearhead for the attack on the Rommel forces blockading the eastern roads to the Coliseum.

In his opinion, the three of them would be enough.

In fact with the mood he was in the three of them would probably be overkill.

There were at least two hundred men blocking the wide road with dug in wooden and stone fortifications, spiked logs tied together to make walls with stones placed at their bases for support. Men easily distinguishable as the Ylissean veterans milled about with the much more numerous Feroxi soldiers; Robin fervently hoped that they would surrender and leave the Ylisseans to fight on their own, but the northerners were a proud race, so he doubted it. All in all, though, he saw no more than fifty of the veteran soldiers.

“At least this is almost over now,” he sighed, feeling some of the tension drain from him at the though. “It’ll be nice to go home again.”

“I agree,” Tharja commented idly. “I saw more than enough of Regna Ferox the last two times you dragged me through it.”

“Each time was voluntary and I couldn’t force you to stay behind if I tried,” Robin deadpanned.

The Dark Mage shrugged as Lucina laughed at their display. As territorial as the blue-haired woman was, it was still nice that Robin had old friends like she did.

“Mother,” Noire called out. “We are… r-ready. The others are all in p-position.”

Tharja nodded, frowning at her daughter’s nervous habit of stuttering as she turned and began to walk back to where the rest of the mages were positioned with Galle and Arya.

“Don’t die,” she said over her shoulder, mostly as an afterthought.

Robin scoffed, grinning a little at the absurdity.

“You know, they do say the third time’s the charm,” he laughed.

Lucina chuckled a little at the gallows humor as Tharja strode back through the trees, Noire falling into step with her mother as she went to lead the young mages in their casting.

The plan was ridiculously simple; Tharja led the mages in creating cover and bottlenecking the soldiers by attacking the flanks, and Robin and Lucina led a frontal charge. It would be quick and brutal, and Robin had already called for a ‘no mercy’ policy. If the enemy surrendered, he wouldn’t execute them, but if they stood against him…

Robin pushed all thoughts of morality from his mind as he reached back and tied his hair up and out of his face. The scars on his forehead and nose practically shone as light reflected off of them in the weak afternoon sun. Next to him Lucina silently donned her old mask, slipping into her old ‘Marth’ persona as she did so. Robin knew it helped her cope. They weren’t fighting Risen, or Valmese soldiers or even Plegians. They were fighting Ylisseans and Feroxi here; allies and countrymen, veteran soldiers that had stood at their side. It hurt Lucina to raise arms against them, just as it hurt Robin to order her to do so.

Without looking back Robin started walking towards where the enemy was dug in, saying only one other word over his shoulder as he let his usual humor and good cheer be replaced by steel and wrath, his hatred bubbling back to the fore.

“Fae.”

“If you’re sure…” the manakete responded hesitantly behind him.

There was a strange sound behind Robin, a weird tearing, popping sound that he always equated with the shape-shifters he knew changing form, before a great downward blast of air. A large dragon flew over his head, not quite as big as Tiki but still bigger than Nowi or Nah, and towards the enemy fortifications.

Just as the enemy soldiers looked up and began scrambling and panicking Fae opened her mouth and a searing jet of magical blueish flames poured over the front line fortifications. Robin grimaced as a loud howl echoed through the air, followed by a second. Three dark horse-sized forms exploded from the forest near the back of the enemy formation, Panne leading Kowrowa and Ita in a diversionary attack on the enemy’s rear to further disrupt unit cohesion.

“Forward!” Robin snarled, breaking into a run.

As he pumped his legs, confident that the others were right behind him, Robin struggled to maintain his composure. He wanted to roar, to bay like an animal lusting for the enemy’s blood after what they had done. Just like back in Valm. But he was a more mature person now, and more importantly he needed to set an example for Arya, who would no doubt be watching his every move.

He settled for a grunt as he kicked off the ground, using wind magic to launch himself over the blazing wooden barricade as Lucina led the others around through the slatted openings.

Landing in a crouch the tactician glanced up from under his brow, scowling at the Feroxi soldiers shrinking away from him, sheer terror on their faces in the presence of the wrathful tactician. As he rose to his full height the others charged into the camp around the barricade, Owain kicking a good portion of it down for good measure.

“Anyone that doesn’t want to die, throw down your weapons and run!” Robin snarled. “Any other actions, any at all, will be seen as hostile and we will respond in kind!”

A couple of the soldiers looked conflicted, many of them barely old enough to have finished their basic training, but all old enough to know who Robin was and what he and his followers were capable of. Robin didn’t think that his threat would amount to much, considering the Feroxi predisposition to solving any problem with fighting, but for a moment it looked like it had worked.

“Stand firm! You fight for the Khan! For Khan Idallia and Eastern Regna Ferox! Make ready to repel these invaders!”

Robin clicked his tongue in annoyance as a weak cheer went up from the Feroxi soldiers, the press parting to allow a squad of Ylissean ex-soldiers to march forward. There were a number of different provincial uniforms and armors among the Ylisseans, the majority belonging to the Themisian forces that had been devastated in Valm.

“Damn. Almost had them,” he muttered to himself, striding forward to meet them.

Lucina, Owain, Severa, Van and Mariko all spread out behind him, the two younger tacticians looking a little nervous compared to the calm exteriors of the Shepherds.

“On behalf of Khan Idallia I hereby order you to stand down!” an older man sporting an eyepatch shouted, stepping forward with a slight limp. “You are in violation of-”

“In the name of Khan Flavia I’m here to dethrone your usurper Khan!” Robin shouted above the man.

A large squad of Ylissean-armored men were arrayed between the Shepherds and the Feroxi now, the grizzled veterans standing in front eyeing Robin with a look of resignation, the younger men behind them beginning to sweat with nerves. Behind them the clearly reluctant Feroxi warriors stood restlessly, waiting to see what happened.

The tactician held his sword point-out, glaring at them all.

“If any of you ever held any fealty to the Exalt, stand down,” he said evenly.

A few of the veterans looked at the men standing next to them, beginning to sweat. But to Robin’s surprise, a number of the older men shook their heads and threw down their weapons, the leader included.

“It was worth a try,” the old man in front sighed. “I’m too old to be fighting the Grandmaster, anyway. Lay down your arms, all of you! We surrender unconditionally!”

* * *

“That went easier than expected,” Galle muttered as he and Arya walked into the captured camp, the Dark Mage Acolytes right behind them.

The Feroxi soldiers were milling about at the periphery of the camp under Owain and Severa’s supervision, clearly not happy about having their weapons taken away. A number of armored Ylissean men were among them, the younger ones looking just as lost while the older men just looked… tired. Beaten. Like they had lost a long time ago, and were tired of fighting. It was the same look he saw on Owain’s face when the other man thought no one was looking.

“Noire, guard the prisoners,” Tharja snapped as she brushed by the young tacticians.

The girl in question squeaked in surprise before rushing to stand guard with the other two Shepherds, leaving the other apprentices to wait with the tacticians.

Galle glanced up as Mari moved to his side, the Plegian giving a slight smile at her familiar presence. Van was right behind her, frowning as he bounced his sword-staff up and down on his shoulder impatiently.

“They didn’t even put up a fight,” he said dejectedly. “They just surrendered.”

“Yeah, but you’ve seen Robin when he’s mad,” Galle pointed out. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he singlehandedly glared down the entire Valmese army.”

“That’s pretty damn close to the truth, I tell ya,” Brady grunted, hobbling by them. “Wounded?”

“Only prisoners, all over there,” Van said, pointing to the press of Feroxi bodies. “Some burns, some lacerations. Nothing life-threatening.”

The surly priest grunted again, brandishing his staff as he moved to do his work. Galle noticed Kowrowa and Ita sniffing around the tents, Panne and Gaius doing much the same as they searched for any traps or other surprises. Robin was being thorough.

“I didn’t even get to cast anything,” one of the Dark Mages, the girl Femi, muttered darkly.

“That’s a good thing, kid,” Galle sighed.

“Don’t ‘kid’ me,” she snapped. “You’re not that much older than me!”

“Yeah, yeah, simmer down,” the older Plegian groaned. “I’m just saying, this could have gotten a lot messier.”

“Plus I’m pretty sure you’ll still get your chance before this is over,” Van added helpfully.

“At least I finally got to stretch my wings a little!” Fae said happily, appearing just behind the small group.

They all jumped, with the exception of Arya who was getting used to the sneaky manakete by now.

* * *

Robin let out a little growl as he, Lucina and Tharja faced three men across a small table covered in familiar maps and papers. The old man, Maurice, had brought the trio back to the command tent with his second, a younger man named Adrik, and the Feroxi commander who hadn’t named himself yet.

“Give me answers,” Robin snapped. “I want the full story. Now.”

“It’s a long story, Grandmaster, and there’s not really a lot of time before the tournament,” Maurice said honestly.

“Then give me the main points,” Robin said, his voice low and threatening.

Maurice nodded, opening his mouth but stopping when Robin held up his hand.

“Tharja?” he said, motioning the Dark Mage forward.

With a scowl she stepped up to the table, digging out a handful of dried somethings from one of her pouches and using them to cast a spell on the old man.

“Truth hex,” Robin growled. “I’m not playing anymore. Now talk, and keep it brief.”

Maurice nodded, his Adam’s-apple bobbing up and down nervously. It was common knowledge that truth hexes could be draining, even life threatening in some cases depending on how long they were used. Robin didn’t let it show, but he wasn’t happy about resorting to these methods. But the old soldier had been right; they were running out of time.

“We tried to muscle our way into Silva and force the locals to sign their deeds over to us, but you kicked us out,” he said quickly. “Plan was to use the ‘bandits’ to make em think they needed our protection. Didn’t work, so we attacked your fort to distract you while the Lady enacted plan B, which was buy up enough of the town to become important landowners. You captured the Captain and tortured him crazy. Then they came here, killed the Khan and took over, leaving us out here as a sacrifice to keep you busy. Now if they win the Khan-meet Idallia’ll be Khan Regnant and her psychotic brother will have more power than I want to think about.”

Robin nodded as Maurice took a shuddering breath.

“Tell me about your ‘Captain’,” the Tactician pressed.

“When we found him near the border he was manic,” the old man continued reluctantly. “Wild. Covered in blood, none of it his own. He had… the brand burned into his face. He killed three of his own men before we convinced him it was us, and we were there to rescue him. I don’t know what in Naga’s name you did to him, but it broke him.”

“I tried to give him a second chance,” Robin spat.

“He was a Knight,” Maurice said, shaking his head. “And he was always vain, but he was… a little off after Valm. It got worse after that fight at Origin Peak. You burnin’ his face up pushed him over the edge. Now he’s got some crazy armor that’s making him even more nuts…”

“Maurice!” Adrik hissed at the older man’s shoulder. “That’s the Captain you’re talking about!”

“Captain’s dead, boy!” the older man snapped. “Died a long time ago. Whatever’s wearin’ his skin ain’t human no more. Ain’t no saving what he’s become.”

Robin nodded, thinking.

“Is there anything else between here and the Coliseum?” he asked.

Maurice shook his head.

“Straight shot to the Coliseum. They aren’t even trying to hold a preliminary tournament for the East. That Raimi lady was spittin’ mad about that.”

Robin nodded, smirking at the thought of the Feroxi woman’s temper.

“Tharja, cancel the hex,” he sighed after a moment. “We need to move. Raimi will be along soon and she can hold them here while we move on the capital.”

Robin was already halfway around the small table, Lucina right behind him, when the old man called out.

“Grandmaster,” Maurice said quietly. “For what it’s worth… I’m sorry it came to this. A lot of us… we never wanted to go up against you or the Khans.”

The tactician stopped, looking down for a moment before nodding.

“You know, I was there,” the old man went on wistfully, wincing when Tharja yanked one of his grey hairs out to cancel the truth hex. “I was there at Steiger. I saw you come out, half dead. I saw you go back in right after, like a god of war. I was right there, in the first rank off the boats at Origin Peak with Grandmaster Morgan. I always followed you and yours, Grandmaster. I… I’m sorry. All of us. We never wanted this.”

Robin glanced over his shoulder, his expression softening.

“Prove it,” he said. “Help me stop this madness before Maris does something else I can’t undo.”

“Maurice you can’t seriously-” Adrik started.

“Shut it, boy!” the old man growled. “It’s time to do the right thing, for a change!”

Adrik sagged, nodding once and averting his gaze as the old soldier limped forward, snapping to attention in front of Robin and Lucina.

“First Lieutenant Maurice of the Themisian Medium Infantry 3rd platoon, reporting for duty, sir!”

* * *

Vaike let out a happy sigh as he rotated his arms, axe in one hand as the other alternated between flexing and forming a fist. The cheering of the crowd in the smaller secondary arena was deafening as he strode out onto the sand, grinning up and waving at the spectators. Across the arena his opponent stood glowering at his display of showmanship, the Feroxi swordsman waiting impatiently for the match to begin.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Basilio roared, playing announcer for the tournament himself.

“Welcome to the first of the semi-final matches! Hailing from Ylisse; Vaike, the ‘Teach’ of Ylisstol!”

The crowd’s roars increased to a fevered pitch as Vaike hollered along with them, jumping and pumping his free hand in the air to work them up even more. It was a good minute until they calmed to the point where Basilio could continue, the old Khan grinning along with his subjects.

This was important not only to the Khan, but to all of Regna Ferox. Traditions had to be upheld, even if they were sullied by foreigners trying to seize power on one side. Vaike had even considered throwing the fight to make sure that a Feroxi made it to the finals, but the thought of actually getting to fight Lon’qu had been too good to pass up.

“And his opponent,” Basilio went on in a loud voice. “Winner of Western Regna Ferox’s last preliminary tournament, Lon’qu, the azure flash!”

If the crowd’s reaction to Vaike had been loud, Lon’qu’s reaction was deafening. The crowd went berserk with excitement for the champion of the last preliminary tournament, a rare grin rising to the swordsman’s face as he lazily waved to them.

“All eyes on Teach, ‘cause class is in session!” Vaike roared, much to the crowd’s approval.

Lon’qu just smirked and shook his head, sinking into a ready stance.

“I always wanted to see which one’a us was stronger,” Vaike said as he moved across from the smaller man. “Tell me you never thought about it.”

Lon’qu nodded silently, still smirking. He raised his sword in a salute before sinking back into his stance.

Vaike grinned back at him, hopping up and down on the spot to loosen up as much as he could. When he was as ready as he was going to get he stepped back, raising his axe and signaling he was ready.

“Fight already!” Basilio roared.

The crowd erupted at the same time Lon’qu darted forward, moving low and fast. Vaike stepped back, bringing his axe down as hard as he could. The weapon became a blur, and Lon’qu leapt to the side to avoid the blow. Sand and the stone beneath erupted into the air from the force of Vaike’s blow, the axeman pressing his attack and closing the distance between the two fighters with two quick steps.

Vaike hissed as he dodged to the side, Lon’qu’s reprisal blow so fast he’d nearly missed it. As he backed away a line of red ran down his chest from a shallow cut near his shoulder.

Seeing first blood the crowd lost it, cheering so loud Vaike could have sworn he felt the ground tremble. 

“I’m far from beat!” Vaike growled in response to the crowd.

“Good,” Lon’qu smirked.

Vaike spun, bringing his axe down in a diagonal arc as he stepped around Lon’qu. The swordsman thrust forward, missing Vaike’s arm by less than a centimeter, before tumbling forward into a roll and clipping Vaike’s leg with his backswing. Vaike had counted on that, though, and surged forward into the blow before Lon’qu could recover. The blow to his thigh was a little deeper than he’d been expecting, but Vaike shrugged it off and brought his open hand down on Lon’qu’s shoulder, grabbing hold of a great handful of the smaller man’s collar.

“Let’s see you dodge this,” he said with a vicious grin. “Clench your teeth!”

Lon’qu’s eyes actually widened a fraction before Vaike brought the back of his axe down on his face, crushing his nose and knocking him to the ground. Lon’qu let out a cough as he struggled to rise, Vaike holding him down with one foot in the middle of his back. He brought the blade of his axe to rest against the prone swordsman’s throat, holding his empty fist in the air in victory.

Even though he was pretty sure he was about to pass out due to blood loss from the wound in his thigh, the screams of the crowd were the most amazing thing Vaike had ever heard.

* * *

“Wow!” Lucina, the younger Lucina, breathed as she leaned against the stone railing overlooking the arena. “Mister Vaike is so strong! He even beat Uncle Lon’qu!”

Chrom snickered a little, pulling his hood lower over his face. True to his promise, he and Lucina had snuck away to watch the preliminaries as soon as they had been able, snatching hooded cloaks from startled attendants along the way. It had been relatively easy to evade any of Basilio’s honor guard, too, and the duo had snuck out of the Khan’s quarters into the city within a matter of minutes. After that they had blended into the crowd of latecomers moving to catch the end of the tournament, finding a decent vantage point standing above the edge of the arena.

“Heh, your uncle’s getting sloppy,” Chrom laughed. “Vaike had it right, though; take away his superior agility and speed and Lon’qu is a sitting duck. I’d hate to be Vaike when we get back and your Aunt finds out, though.”

Lucina giggled the way a young girl was supposed to, smiling and watching the crowd with a happy expression. Chrom’s heart warmed when he thought about giving her the life that the other Lucina had been denied, her and Cynthia both. It was his greatest goal in life, to be a better father than his future self had been. To actually be there for the girls.

“Yeah, Auntie Lissa’s scary when she’s mad,” Lucina giggled, bouncing up and down a little. “Who’s fighting next?”

“I dunno, honey,” Chrom said, leaning forward to rest his palms on the railing next to his daughter. “We were lucky to make it in time for the semi-finals, but we missed the other fights.”

“It is Princess Cynthia and young Miss Kjelle who are the next combatants.”

Chrom and Lucina both winced at the steely tone of voice from behind them, slowly turning around to come face-to-face with a frowning Frederick. The Knight Commander was still a threatening figure, even outside of his armor and in his neat dress uniform. He snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring down at the two royals.

“Busted…” Lucina muttered, positioning herself slightly behind her father.

“Er… eh-heh… Frederick, old friend, I can explain,” Chrom laughed awkwardly.

Just then any actual explanation was cut off by the crowd erupting as two women jogged out onto the field, one waving and hopping around as the other stoically approached the starting area.

“Perhaps you had best save any excuses for after the bout, Milord,” Frederick shouted above the crowd. “After all, it would be remiss of me to not allow the young Princess to watch her sister fight.”

“Really!?” Lucina asked excitedly. “Thanks, Frederick! You’re the best!”

The young girl rushed up, giving the Knight Commander a quick hug around his waist before going back to her position perched on the stone railing, shouting encouragement to her time-travelling sister, her small voice becoming one with that of the rest of the crowd.

“After all, it is not I you will need to explain yourself to,” Frederick added into Chrom’s ear as he stepped past the Exalt. “Queen Sumia is already on her way to watch the finals.”

Chrom actually paled at the thought of facing his wife’s wrath.

“Y… yeah,” he muttered, moving to his daughter’s side.

_I’m a dead man_ , he thought sullenly as the fight started.

Chrom was so preoccupied with thoughts of his wife’s anger that he didn’t notice Frederick glaring up at the East Khan’s box, where the Shepherds had watched the previous tournament from.

* * *

Cynthia hopped up and down a little, still not entirely comfortable fighting on foot. It wasn’t that she couldn’t fight on foot, and the fact that she had made it to the semi-finals of the tournament was testament to that, but so far all she’d fought were Feroxi soldiers, most only around her age and none having gone through the rigorous survivalist training she had. Years ago she wouldn’t have even considered this; she had always been clumsy, uneven on her feet as a youth, but years of training and fighting had fixed that. It just felt strange after so many years not to be fighting atop Palla. Even the pegasus herself had been far from happy about being left in Basilio’s stables.

But this was a knight’s duty, saving people. If she had to fight on foot, naked with nothing but a branch for a weapon she would find a way, because that’s what heroes did. That’s what Robin had done in Valm, that’s what Lucina had done back in the future, and Cynthia would be damned if she let anyone else save Regna Ferox from a crazy tyrant exploiting some ancient loop-hole to seize power.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen!” Basilio thundered. “The second of the semi-final matches!”

The crowd erupted into cheering again, making Cynthia’s stomach back-flip with nerves. She watched as the grinning Vaike held Lon’qu up, the swordsman’s arm draped over one of his big shoulders as they exited the arena together. Both were battered and bloody, but Vaike would be who she fought in the finals. The axeman gave her a little wink as he dragged Lon’qu past her, the challenge in the motion clear.

“Hailing from Ylisstol, one of the finest Pegasus Knights ever to fly,” Basilio announced. “A member of the prestigious White-Wings, Deputy Commander Cynthia of the Ylissean Pegasus Knights!”

Cynthia took a deep breath and ran out onto the arena floor, holding her lance up high and smiling radiantly at the crowd. As she reached the center of the arena, stained red with blood from the other fights, she struck a pose, spreading her legs wide and making a peace sign over her face.

“For justice!” she shouted, much to the approval of the crowd.

Across from her Kjelle was already jogging out onto the field, her stern features set in a frown as she practically ignored the crowd.

“Oh-ho! It looks like her challenger’s an excitable one!” Basilio announced. “Also hailing from Ylisse! A knight of the realm and warrior unmatched! Daughter of the Knight Commander, Kjelle of the Ylisstol Knights!”

Kjelle raised her spear in salute to the Khan as the crowd cheered, both women already having garnered large fan bases from their previous fights.

“I always wanted to fight you,” Kjelle said, pointing her lance directly at Cynthia. “I never could, though. What Knight points a weapon at their Princess?”

Cynthia laughed, twirling her lighter spear around her shoulders and into a ready position.

“I’m just another Knight, now,” she said with a grin. “Just like you. But know that I am justice, and justice always prevails!”

Kjelle’s frown turned up a little, but she shook her head and threw her large kite-shield to one side.

“It’s better this way,” she shouted over the crowd’s roaring approval. “No titles protecting you, no shield protecting me!”

Cynthia bounced up and down a little, her grin only widening.

“You just threw away your only advantage here,” the blue-haired woman laughed.

They stared at each other, both tensing as the crowd chanted around them, waiting for the signal to begin.

“Show us what you’ve got, girls!” Basilio shouted. “Begin!”

Cynthia wasted no time, darting in low and fast. One thing she’d learned from fighting the bigger Feroxi warriors was that her main advantage was speed. Another thing she’d learned watching Vaike and Lon’qu duel was that she couldn’t be pinned down like the swordsman had been.

Kjelle may have been big, but she was by no means slow, though. With speed rivalling Cynthia’s own the knight brought her own lance around in a wide arc, knocking Cynthia’s aside and spinning to bring the haft down on her head. The lithe Pegasus Knight rolled, coming up and sweeping her spear out.

Her eyes widened when the spear bounced off Kjelle’s thick greaves, the other woman barely even rocking with the impact.

“Oh…” Cynthia muttered, quickly leaping to her feet and backpedaling.

“Oh is right,” Kjelle laughed, advancing slowly.

Cynthia grimaced, holding her spear out in front of her. Of course Kjelle wouldn’t even flinch from a hit like that; she’d been like a brick wall even before they had travelled back in time, and now… now she was an immovable object.

Shaking her head Cynthia forced herself to relax.

“No one is unbeatable!” she announced, lunging high with her spear.

The short-haired woman dodged back, Cynthia’s spear flying past her unarmored face. Cynthia knew, from years of helping each other with armor maintenance, that Kjelle’s had three weak points; the unarmored head, the straps below the arms that held the breastplate in place, and as Robin had once demonstrated the size of the armor making it difficult for her to turn quickly.

With this in mind Cynthia stabbed again at Kjelle’s side, grinning when the other woman caught her spear. Sacrificing her main weapon as a feint Cynthia threw herself into a roll beneath Kjelle’s own lance, coming up behind her and drawing the small dagger she kept strapped to her calf. Cynthia came up just as Kjelle dropped her spear, pressing the dagger to the bigger woman’s throat.

“Yield,” Cynthia said, panting.

Kjelle froze and narrowed her eyes, clearly wondering if she could turn this around somehow by taking the wound like Vaike had done. Cynthia pressed harder, and a single line of red ran down from where the knife met her neck.

With an exasperated sigh Kjelle dropped her lance, raising both hands in defeat.

* * *

“Whoa! Did you see that!? That was awesome!” Morgan shouted, jumping up and down in her seat.

Say’ri chuckled, caught up in the festive atmosphere as the second semi-final fight ended in the young Pegasus Knight’s victory.

“Princess, please control yourself,” Kei’ji sighed.

“It was a fine duel,” Sei’ko chuckled, placing a subtle calming hand on Morgan’s arm.

Say’ri nodded, glancing up at the other viewing boxes around them. Virion and Cherche next to him were doing the same.

“Does something feel… strange to you, my Queen?” Virion asked in a low voice.

Say’ri nodded slowly, narrowing her eyes.

There was a foul presence in the air, one making the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Subtly, so that the others wouldn’t notice, Say’ri loosed her blades in their sheathes.

* * *

Chrom clapped as Lucina screamed herself hoarse along with the crowd around them, grinning like the proud father he was.

“Did you see that, Frederick!?” Chrom shouted above the crowd. “Who do you think taught her to…? Frederick?”

The big knight had gone stiff, frowning up at the box that would seat the East Khan for the tournament.

“She’s early,” he muttered.

Chrom looked up, too, his good mood fading somewhat as he realized that Frederick was right; up in the Khan’s box there was a flurry of activity as Idallia arrived. Bellow them the crowd was taking notice, too, becoming quiet and staring up with craned necks. The Eastern Khan hadn’t left her quarters since securing the position months ago; this was her very first public appearance, and people were curious. Chrom felt his chest tighten as he recognized one of the high-merchants from the south of Ylisse, surrounded by hooded and cloaked retainers.

On the field below the healers were just finishing with Cynthia as Vaike stepped out onto the sand for the finals match when Idallia spoke.

Or rather, someone spoke for her.

“Congratulations, Ylissean interlopers, for making it to the finals!”

The ‘Khan’ stood to one side as a man in heavy black armor strode to the railing of the box. Chrom instinctively reached out and pulled Lucina close to him as he saw the armor, his mood instantly souring.

“I’d keep your trap shut, boy!” Basilio thundered from the announcer’s seat. “This is Western Regna Ferox’s preliminary!”

A chorus of boos and jeers rose up from the rest of the Westerners in the stands. Behind the man Idallia flinched as the crowd heckled them, but the armored man seemed to just laugh.

“I suggest you sit there quietly until I’ve decided who’s going to give you the beating you so clearly need!” Basilio finished, rising to his feet.

“That’s got to be Maris,” Chrom muttered to Frederick.

The big knight nodded his agreement as Lucina squirmed in her father’s grip, trying to see what had the two men so on-guard.

“I had thought to make this fairer!” Maris laughed, earning more hate from the crowd. “Your two best against the East’s champion!”

“I’m guessing that’s him?” Chrom snorted.

“I’m guessing that’s you?” Basilio shouted. “Sit down, boy! I applaud your courage, but-”

Before the Khan could finish Maris was already moving, jumping off of the high balcony and plummeting the thirty-odd feet to the ground. He landed heavily on his feet, knees bent to absorb the impact as if he hadn’t just fallen thirty feet through the air, directly beneath the East’s box on the arena floor.

Cynthia and Vaike instantly took up their weapons as the crowd screamed in excitement; the people wanted to see the blood of the men that had usurped Flavia as much as the Shepherds did, and now that the opportunity had arrived the crowd was in a frenzy.

“Frederick, take Lucina somewhere safe,” Chrom said, passing his daughter over to the knight. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Aw, but I wanted to see the fight!” she groaned.

“Of course, milord,” Frederick nodded. “But what will you be doing?”

Chrom pulled off his borrowed cloak and with one finger tugged loose the stifling collar on his uniform. He rested his hand on Falchion’s hilt as he turned to grin at the Knight Commander, indicating down to the arena with a jerk of his head.

“I’m going down there to make sure that this is a fair fight.”

* * *

Cynthia narrowed her eyes as the Eastern Champion unclipped the long cape from his back and let it fall forgotten to the floor of the arena. Next to her Vaike was warily eyeing him, too. Something wasn’t right. Besides the obvious.

“Think we may have to postpone our fight, kid,” Vaike grunted, shaking out his arms.

Cynthia nodded, a familiar sensation of danger spreading through her consciousness. The same sense she used to get from the Risen back in the future.

“Very well!” Basilio laughed above them. “If you wish to throw your claim to Khan Regnant away so easily, I’ll approve this fight! Vaike! Cynthia! Destroy him for Western Regna Ferox!”

There was no further chance for conversation as the crowd thundered their approval of Basilio’s decision, shouting encouragement to the two Shepherds or insults at the Knight.

With a dry laugh the Knight pulled a huge two-handed sword out of the sheathe on his back, the blade made of the same black material as his armor.

It made Cynthia’s skin crawl. It was like he…

“Feel’s like he’s one’a the Risen, don’t it?” Vaike muttered, narrowing his eyes.

Cynthia nodded, taking a calming breath. After fighting them for so long all of the Shepherds were familiar with the pervasive feeling of wrongness that came from Grima’s servants.

But… Grima was dead and gone.

Cynthia gave her head a little shake, forcing herself to relax. She was a hero! She’d faced the Risen thousands of times in the past and the future, and never faltered before! So… why was she so scared of this man?

“I’ll go high,” Vaike said with a sideways glance. “You take out his legs. Poor bastard’s got no idea what he’s in for.”

“Vaike, wait!” Cynthia cried, too late.

The big axeman let out a guttural cry, gripping his axe with both hands as he ran forward. Thanks to her training and experience Cynthia was only a step behind him, leading low with her lance to knock the feet out from under the knight.

She mentally braced herself all the same, though. Her instincts told her that, even together, she and Vaike were outmatched by this… thing.

Vaike’s cry reached its apex as his axe came down from above while Cynthia skidded and spun close to the ground, her spear flashing out. Both blows failed to connect, Vaike’s axe sliding down the knight’s sword in a shower of sparks as the man stepped back slightly to avoid Cynthia’s blow. With blinding speed he flipped his massive sword up and over his shoulder, the blade barely missing Vaike’s face as the axeman threw himself back, landing flat on his rear. Cynthia moved in, determined to distract the knight until the older Shepherd was back on his feet.

She ducked beneath one of the knight’s blows, throwing her hips back to avoid another and jabbed her spear towards his midsection. Her blow was true, but bounced off the man’s thick armor.

Cynthia hopped back, her confidence sinking as the knight laughed at their attacks. Above them the crowd continued to roar, the sound starting to give Cynthia a headache. Beside her Vaike growled, kneading the haft of his axe.

“What the hell’s this guy made outta?” he muttered irritably.

Cynthia didn’t have an answer for him.

“Are you done?” the knight asked. “Is it my turn now?”

Without waiting for an answer the man threw himself forward, only to dodge to the side as a trio of lightning bolts made small craters in the arena floor. The crowd grew hushed as they struggled to comprehend what was going on beneath them, until fourth, hooded figure appeared on the arena floor.

The man in a familiar coat strode purposely forward, ignoring the questioning murmurs in the spectators as to why the match had been interrupted.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Regna Ferox, I apologize,” Robin announced. “But this tournament is being postponed.”

* * *

Robin glared down at the kneeling Maris as Vaike and Cynthia moved to his side, the crowd’s dissatisfied muttering growing in volume.

“Robin, what the hell’re-” Vaike started.

“Tactician!” Maris snarled beneath his helm. “Why must you constantly hamper my plans!? Everything here is perfectly legal!”

“Executive decision,” Robin deadpanned. “I’m putting you down before you do something we’ll all regret. Stand down, Maris, or I’ll make you.”

The ex-knight laughed as he rose back to his feet, resting his sword against one huge pauldron.

“You know, the Khan-woman said much the same thing,” he sneered. “I’m sure you know how well that went for her.”

“Bastard…” Cynthia growled.

The tactician held up a forestalling hand, stepping forward again.

“Grima’s power is not to be trifled with!” Robin roared, his composure utterly evaporating. “There are only three people in this world capable of containing it, and you are not one of them!”

“Is that what this is!?” Maris laughed, looking down at the armor on his arms. “Does it even matter!? I’m even more powerful now than I ever was!”

“You’re nuts!” Vaike exclaimed.

“Maris, I won’t hesitate this time,” Robin said, his voice lowering. “I’ve given you every chance to stop this madness. This is the last one. Take off that armor and burn it, and I’ll show leniency.”

“You and what authority, tactician!?” Maris snarled, levelling his sword.

“My authority. By order of the Exalt of Ylisse I command you to stand down, Knight.”

Robin glanced over his shoulder as Chrom stomped out onto the arena floor wearing a crisp and neat dress uniform, Basilio not far behind him.

“I’ve had enough of this farce,” the Khan spat. “You Ylissean bastards come into my home and trample my traditions and think you can get away with it!? No offense, Chrom.”

“None taken,” the Exalt snorted. “He’s one of my subjects, though, so that makes this my problem, too.”

Both rulers came to a stop at one of Robin’s shoulders, glaring at the black armored knight.

“You heard them,” Robin warned. “Give it up. You’re outnumbered.”

Maris’ shoulders began to shake. However, rather than the outburst of rage Robin had been expecting, he was greeted by laughter. The same mindless, insane laughter that Gangrel had had. The same soulless, manic sound that Validar had made.

Maris laughed as he pulled the helm off of his head, and the Feroxi spectators screamed in terror at the sight.

“No, milords,” Maris spat around pointed fangs through black lips, his skin an unnatural grey color shot through with pulsating lines of red.

The ground began to tremble beneath Robin’s feet as a familiar malign presence flooded the arena. The people in the stands began to scream again as dust and loose stones started raining down from the ceiling. A web of cracks spread out from beneath Maris in all directions, blackened and decayed hands reaching up from beneath the earth. As Robin and the small group behind him began to back away dozens of Risen began to climb up out of the ground, ashen skin and dark leather masks and hoods exactly as he remembered them after so many years.

“You’re outnumbered,” Maris cackled triumphantly.

Robin ushered the group back out of the arena as the stands started to empty, Basilio practically dragging Chrom.

“I really need to learn how to do that,” he muttered to himself.

The tactician let out a little groan as a familiar headache assailed him, feeling a sickening pulsating from his coat’s pocket.

“Clear the arena!” Basilio shouted. “Get out of the Coliseum!”

The screaming in the stands grew to a fevered pitch as Risen began to appear amongst the spectators, claws and rusted weapons grinding against stone as they pulled themselves out of oblivion and into reality.

“Now begins the rule of House Rommel!” Maris announced, his voice tinged with laughter. “Kill anyone that will not submit! We will rule this nation, this continent and even this entire world or see it burned to ashes!”

He looked up to the East Khan’s viewing box, his eyes starting to glow red as a gentle smile crossed his lips.

“Are you watching sister!?” he called out. “We’ve done it at last! The world rests in our hands!”


	17. Chapter 17

Morgan cursed under her breath, drawing the ancient nodachi Sol from over her shoulder as the first of the Risen started to invade the crowded stands around the Chon’sinian delegation’s booth.

“This brings back memories,” Cherche sighed behind the tactician.

“Indeed,” Virion sighed. “Just once I would like to have a gathering with our finest of friends without the day becoming a Risen-infested free-for-all.”

Despite the archer’s complaining he already had his bow drawn and was firing off arrows with great precision, covering the fleeing audience members as the Risen nipped at their heels.

“Truly, though, it has been quite some time since we have faced the foulest of Risen,” he added.

“Fie, it matters not!” Say’ri declared. “Morgan!”

The younger woman nodded at her mother’s order, eyes narrowing as she strode towards the edge of the balcony where Virion was shooting. Her eyes took in everything in an instant; while they would eventually have to stop the knight in the center of the arena, clearing the stadium of the spectators trapped by the Risen took priority. Her father, down on the arena floor, no doubt had the same thing in mind.

“Virion should stay here and cover the spectators as they escape,” Morgan said. “Sei’ko, Kei’ji, and Cherche need to go left and clear the stands. Be careful and watch each-other’s backs. Mother, we can handle the right side.”

“Agreed,” Say’ri nodded, drawing a sword in each hand. “Consider those my orders.”

“Not agreed!” Kei’ji growled. “I do not find it wise to split our forces, and I especially disagree with putting the Queen in harm’s-”

“Cousin, shut up and fight,” Sei’ko sighed, already walking with Cherche out of the booth.

Morgan grinned and winked at the young General as she spun on her own heel, making for the doorway, too.

“Kei’ji, show the Feroxi how we were able to crush Walhart’s forces so easily,” Say’ri ordered archly, following the other three women.

With a sigh Kei’ji dropped his head, frowning as he stomped out of the box.

“I’ll just stay here then, shall I?” Virion called over his shoulder. “Unprotected. Right. At least Robin would have left me a guard! Argh, I am getting far too old for this…”

* * *

“Oh, this is bad,” Yarne muttered.

He and the other Shepherds on the arena floor watched with wide eyes as their nightmares came to life again, Risen crawling up out of the sand and snarling with glowing red eyes.

“Form ranks!” Lon’qu barked. “This is no different than how we used to do it!”

Sully and Kjelle were both there in an instant, twin walls of armor and lance before the lighter-armored Shepherds, Libra and Inigo right behind them. Yarne moved to join them as Olivia hung back, a nervous frown on her face as she clutched a thin short-sword next to Miriel, the mage woman already flicking through her spellbook.

“Didn’t we already finish playing this game?” Sully growled, tightening her hands on her lance.

“These things just never give up,” Inigo sighed.

“Break through them,” Lon’qu ordered. “Get to the Exalt and the Khan. Move!”

Before the Shepherds could advance, though, the screaming in the stands started. Lon’qu hesitated, looking up with a more severe frown than he usually wore as the Risen began to appear in the stands above them, the panicked Feroxi citizens practically stampeding to get away from the monsters.

“Lon’qu,” Libra called.

“I know,” the swordsman growled. “Into the stands! Protect the people and guide them out of the arena!”

* * *

“Back! Back it up! Back!” Robin shouted.

The tactician punctuated his shouts by desperately trying to usher the immovable objects of Basilio and Chrom raring for a fight away from the arena floor, where Maris was standing looking enraptured up at the Risen invading the stands full of spectators. Vaike and Cynthia covered their flanks, weapons raised as the Risen started to shamble towards them.

“Why does this keep happening to you kids?” Basilio growled.

“Everywhere I go…” the tactician sighed.

“Robin, what are you doing?” Chrom snapped, struggling against the other man’s retreat. “We can take him!”

“Him? Sure,” Robin said, shaking his head. “The hundred Risen between us and him? Not so much. Raimi’s on her way.”

“We can end this now!” Chrom insisted.

“Dammit, Chrom, think!” Robin snapped. “I’ve spent the last year wandering around the wilderness, and you’ve spent how long sitting on that throne!? None of us is in the kind of shape we were five years ago! We need time to prepare, make a plan, and we need reinforcements before they-”

“Here they come!” Vaike shouted in warning, cutting Robin off mid-speech.

“Do that,” he sighed, shaking his head.

The five Shepherds stood shoulder to shoulder with their weapons drawn as the Risen let out a lusty roar and began to charge, all except Robin grinning in anticipation. The tactician glowered above the Risen, his gaze locked firmly on Maris still standing in the middle of the arena. Contrary to his calm exterior, he was just as excited to tear the Risen apart as the others; Grima’s power was not to be trifled with. Maris needed to learn that. And then pay for his crimes.

The Risen never made it to their line, though. A blast of green wind magic picked up the front rank of the charging monsters and threw them through the air, the rest being forced back by further gusts of magic wind. Robin spun, his face finally breaking into a grin as he spotted the first of their reinforcements.

“Will you hurry up!?” Galle grunted, firing off another wind spell. “I can’t keep doing this all day!”

Behind the younger tactician stood Mari, Van and Arya, each with a weapon drawn and clearly ready to fight. With deft movements Mari and Van both cast lightning spells on the deserted stands to either side of the opening the Shepherds had retreated through, the rubble momentarily blocking the Risen’s advance.

“I don’t think that’s gonna hold them long,” Van coughed, waving the dust out of his face.

Mari blinked a few times in the cloud of dust, but otherwise remained impassive.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Robin asked as he spotted Arya in the cloud.

“I… er… I’m not sure,” she mumbled, gripping her dagger close to her chest.

“Later!” Basilio grunted, stomping past them.

“Retreat!” Robin called. “Get away from the arena! I assume you lot have somewhere for us to retreat to?”

“Lady Lucina’s working on it,” Van shrugged.

“Good! Go! Take any civvies you see with you!” Robin ordered, ushering the others.

Basilio hesitated as he passed the tactician, thumping him in the shoulder with the side of his fist.

“For future reference, boy, you all may have gotten soft, but I’m still every bit the warrior I was five years ago.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Robin snorted with a grin. “Take your ego and carry it after the kids.”

* * *

“No…” Idallia muttered brokenly. “No… no…”

Her knuckles were white as she gripped the railing of the viewing balcony, eyes wide as she watched her brother’s creatures begin to slaughter the people in the stands.

After so long… After they had spent so much time fighting against them…

Maris was using Risen.

Worse, he was using them to attack the very people they were supposed to be ruling.

“Brother, what are you doing…?” she mumbled.

The merchant and would-be-Khan shook her head, stumbling back from the railing as something the size of a large horse dropped from the sky. The gryphon Maris had taken came to a stop next to its master, Idallia’s brother lovingly stroking the creature’s neck before swinging up into its saddle. The creature was just as corrupt as her brother had become now, its white plumage and golden fur a sickly grey and black, its once proud eyes glowing the same baleful red as Maris’.

Idallia sobbed a little, eyes darting around as she tried to think of a way out.

She was on the highest level of the Coliseum’s stands; she would never escape. Not alone. And Maurice and the other soldiers were no doubt dead now that Robin was inside the Coliseum…

“You there!” a woman’s voice called from behind her. “Fie, what are you doing!? Come! We must flee this place!”

Idallia glanced over her shoulder at the familiar-looking foreign woman holding a sword in each hand, glaring at her.

“Come!” she urged. “It is not safe here!”

Idallia nodded numbly, throwing one last look down to the monster her brother had become before turning away.

“Please, you have to help me,” Idallia begged, rushing over to the woman.

“Yeah, we’re old pros at that kind of thing,” another voice chuckled.

A younger woman appeared behind the first, a long, thin sword resting on her shoulder as she smiled at Idallia.

“Come on, you’re practically the last one here,” the younger woman said, holding out her hand. “Let’s get someplace less… Risen-y.”

* * *

Robin and the others emerged almost an hour later into the biggest square of the Coliseum’s marketplace, just inside the main gate. The space was teeming with terrified civilians and confused looking soldiers all trying to get out into the plains outside the city at once. Maurice’s men had blockaded the paths to the square with the help of the Arena Guards, the heavily armored Ylissean veterans ushering frightened townspeople into the relative safety of the square alongside the dour Feroxi guards. Robin spotted the old soldier in the press, shouting orders to begin escorting the women and children out of the arena and towards the nearest towns, the other soldiers not manning the barricades hastening to make his directions a reality.

The tactician let out a sigh of relief when he caught the familiar sound of Owain proclaiming something above the noise of the crowd, betting on the others being with him and beelining for the younger man’s cacophony.

The Coliseum had been a mess; the Feroxi were dour enough as a race to stop short of rioting, but with the few Coliseum Guard there were running around telling everyone to evacuate with no particular order things were getting tense. Fortunately, someone had taken charge at the market square and set it up so that only the three main thoroughfares were still open, the rest closed off by barricades of scrounged timber and iron.

“We need to secure the Khan’s quarters!” Owain insisted. “That my Aunt, the Queen, is still there drives my sword-hand into a frenzy that-”

Robin grinned as he walked up behind the blonde boy and slapped him in the back of the head. Owain jumped and spun, his face breaking into a smile as he spotted the group.

“Thank you,” Severa sighed in relief from next to Owain.

“Master!” Owain shouted gleefully. “And… Uncle Chrom, too! And-”

“Cousin!” Cynthia exploded, her shrill voice betraying her excitement as she rushed forward.

“What-ho, blood of my blood!?” Owain shouted, matching her excitement.

“Let’s just… leave them catch up,” Robin sighed.

He led the others in taking a few steps away from the very loud reunited duo as they started to shout what seemed to be lines from a book or a play at each other, Chrom grinning all the while. Robin craned his neck, trying to get a look at what the Exalt was smiling at, and spotted her in the crowd.

“Shore up those defenses!” Lucina shouted from atop a crate. “Plant the logs, the spears, plant rakes and pitch-forks for all I care! Make a barrier facing outwards, but make sure the civilians can still get through!”

“There you are!” she added, spinning and spotting the other Shepherds. “What took so long?”

Robin shrugged, grinning self-depreciatingly.

“Too long on the road,” he said. “I’m not used to cities again yet. We got lost.”

Lucina scoffed and leapt down off her perch, striding over with quick, sure steps before she reached up to give her husband a quick kiss on the cheek, then turning to her father. She had finally forgone her old ‘Marth’ persona again now that they were fighting Risen instead of Ylisseans, her long blue hair cascading down past her shoulders and her piercing blue gaze freed of the confines of the mask. Chrom laughed a little as he wrapped her in a tight bear-hug, Robin unable to help himself from snickering along a little as he spotted Lucina’s surprised expression. Even after all her progress lately she was still a little lost when it came to public displays of affection from others, apparently.

“More civvies incoming!” Maurice shouted from one of the checkpoints they had set up. “Looks like Risen are houndin’ em!”

“Argh, we’re getting too old for this,” Robin groaned, running a hand through his hair.

“Speak for yourself,” Lucina said sharply, shooting him a glare as her father stepped back.

Robin grinned and shook his head, climbing up on the box Lucina had just descended from.

“Hold!” he called above the crowd. “We can’t all crowd in at once! Shepherds forward! Everyone else, watch the other entry points! Keep the civilians flowing! Everything else is secondary!”

The soldiers and warriors around them, an eclectic group thrown together of Feroxi trackers and arena guards and the Ylissean veterans that had joined Robin, moved to follow his orders without hesitation. As the tactician stepped down from the box and moved at Chrom’s side towards battle once again he found himself wondering if what Excellus had said in Valm all those years ago had been right; that he would be drawn to battle and bloodshed for the rest of his life.

“More coming in from this side!” one of the Feroxi at the far road called back.

Maurice cursed as he limped past the Shepherds, the old soldier breaking into a hobbling run with the rest of his men following suit. There was a loud roar from the central pathway as Fae shifted forms, breathing a jet of magical fire onto the encroaching Risen. The roar was taken up by Kowrowa and Ita, a vicious double howl echoing around the square as the two shape-shifters set upon the Risen Fae had missed.

“Are we going to be enough to hold this point?” Chrom asked with a confident grin.

“You know the answer to that, don’t even bother asking,” Robin sighed.

The rest of the Shepherds began to line up, some louder than others.

“Hoo-baby it’s been too long since Teach got to break him some Risen!” Vaike announced, swinging his axe in broad warm-up strokes. “Hey kid! Seein’ as our duel got interrupted, why don’t we see who gets the highest kill-count to settle it!?”

Cynthia scoffed from Owain’s side, levelling her spear one-handed in a heroic pose as she brushed the long blue strands of hair out of her face.

“Please,” she said. “I’ve been killing these things since I was a girl! You really think you can keep up, old man?”

Vaike’s confident smirk fell at this, his brows knitting together.

“I’ll show you who’s old!”

With a great battlecry that would have left any human opponents quaking in fear Vaike charged forward, brandishing his axe high as his long strides ate up the distance between him and the enemy.

“You just had to encourage him,” Robin groaned, feeling his irritation grow.

For a split second he glanced out over the incoming Risen and the fleeing civilians, calculating numbers and running full scenarios in his head faster than most people could normally think. With a grunt he shook his head, deciding that his desired plan was within acceptable safety margins and stepping forward.

“Fine! Shepherds, charge! Get the civilians through and then pull back! Anyone that fights ranged hang back and give us cover!”

With that the tactician broke into a run after Vaike, drawing his rapier as he ran and setting his features to a tight scowl as he pushed through the civilians after Vaike. Behind him he could hear Lucina and Van ushering the civilians through the barricade, the rest of them racing after him.

With a shout a cross between a laugh and a battle-cry Vaike met the first of the Risen, swinging his axe with the same reckless abandon he always had. Robin was there a few seconds later, crashing into the Risen with all the subtlety of the charging axeman beside him.

The first Risen leapt at him and he simply swept it aside with his sword, the weak creature disappearing to ash on the end of his blade as he drew it back for a second strike. His blows were precise and deadly, a pile of familiar purple-black ashes already beginning to form at his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the others, Chrom at their head, cutting deep into the Risen horde.

However, like they always had, the more numerous Risen began to spill around the Shepherds’ charge and continue towards the barricade with single-minded fury. Robin clicked his tongue, turning and extending his arm. With small arcs of electricity dancing over his arm he planned to release an elthunder spell and bounce it between the various Risen.

The tactician almost lost his balance in his surprise as a spell more akin to Thoron annihilated the Risen in a bright flash of light, the recoil from the spell almost throwing his hand back into his face.

He stopped, staring at his hand with wide eyes for a split moment until someone approached him in the dust.

“Robin?” Lucina asked.

The tactician glanced up, setting his features into a carefully neutral mask.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I must just be letting this all get to me more than I thought.”

Lucina nodded, the look in her eyes telling him that she didn’t believe him. But they had more important things to worry about, and with that in mind the two turned towards where Chrom and the others were holding the Risen back in a line between the buildings. There were other figures standing with the Shepherds now, too, and arrows were flying down from the building above the line. Robin grinned when he spotted a familiar black coat among the Chon’sinian armor. As he and Lucina watched one of the Risen snuck by Chrom’s guard, the Exalt just barely dodging in time and running the creature through with Falchion before moving onto the next.

“Go watch your father’s back before one of them gets lucky,” Robin sighed.

“Be safe,” She said with a nod before racing forward.

Robin watched her move with a faint smile before looking back to his hand, his smile dropping.

A panicked shout interrupted his thoughts and on reflex he extended his hand, carefully modulating the mana flow this time to send a moderate thunder spell crashing into the Risen standing above Arya. The tactician-apprentice scooted back from the line on her rear as Robin approached. With a sigh the older tactician grabbed her by the scruff and pulled her up to her feet.

“What did I say when we first met? Rule number one: Don’t fall down.”

The girl nodded, gripping her dagger close to her chest as she looked up at him with fearful eyes. However, unlike the terror Robin had seen cripple the girl back in Themis it was different. With a grin he realized that she’d grown while he wasn’t paying attention.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked. “Get back behind the barricade before you get hurt. I didn’t say you were ready for this yet.”

Arya vehemently shook her head, a firm set to her frightened features.

“I’m a tactician!” she insisted. “I… I can do this! I’m ready!”

Robin sighed through his nose, his face breaking into a tired smile as he nodded.

“You’re not even close. But at least you’ve got the right attitude. C’mon, kid,” he said, flourishing his rapier. “Try to keep up.”

* * *

“He shouldn’t be able to be doing this,” Robin stated simply almost an hour later. “There’s no logical explanation as to why Maris should be capable of summoning so many Risen when he isn’t even a mage to begin with.”

All of the assembled Shepherds, new and old, stood gathered around the center of the square while Maurice and Raimi organized the defenses. The Feroxi woman had always been dour, even by the frigid northmen’s standards, but there was a new edge to her now; a hardness that Robin was all too used to seeing in veteran soldiers’ eyes.

The Risen were still periodically throwing themselves at the hastily erected barricades, breaking them down almost as fast as the soldiers could repair them. Raimi was an expert in siege tactics, though, and Maurice had served in the Themisian border-guard fighting against invading Plegians; to their credit not a single one of the creatures had gotten past them, and civilian casualties had been minimal.

Fortunately enough, all of the various Shepherds in the Coliseum had made their way to the square as well, including Tharja and her Dark Mages with Raimi’s Feroxi forces from outside, Cordelia leading a very upset Sumia and the Ylissean delegation, Say’ri and Morgan’s Chon’sinian group and the rest of the Shepherds that had been entered in the tournament. Barring only a few absent members, Robin currently had almost the entirety of the Shepherds at full strength to strategize with.

“Maybe he just had a lot of latent talent?” Fae offered.

Tharja shook her head from next to Robin, her usual scowl deepening.

“It doesn’t work that way,” she explained. “At least not with Dark Magic. One thing’s for certain; there’s no soul left in that man to save.”

There was a sharp inhalation of breath from just behind Robin. He glanced over his shoulder, but Idallia remained impassive, ever the merchant queen.

She had been the real dark-horse, showing up holding a looted short sword at the back of Say’ri’s group. Now she was insisting on helping however she could. Robin didn’t really mind; to his mind it just meant that he didn’t have to go looking for her once all of this was over.

“Does it matter?” Lon’qu asked in the lull. “We have our target. No Risen can stand in our way.”

“And what if, dear Lon’qu, by killing him we unleash an even greater evil?” Maribelle asked before Robin could respond. “There are numerous tales of Grima possessing hosts throughout the millennia.”

“Case in point,” Robin cut in with a smirk, raising his hand to a smattering of chuckles.

“My brother’s mind is still his own,” Idallia stated. “I… have been speaking to him. With the helm on, when it was just the two of us… you would never know he had changed like this.”

“Okay, so we’re just dealing with a nut-job with apocalyptic-scale power, not the dark-dragon god of death again,” Morgan nodded. “Good to know.”

“I think our course is still clear,” Say’ri added. “The longer we tarry the more powerful he becomes, yes? Fie! Let us cut directly through to the heart of these creatures and end this matter!”

“He does have that most fearsome of Gryphons, though,” Virion reminded them.

“Argh! I can’t believe I forgot about that stupid thing!” Robin groaned, scrunching his hair up.

He crossed his arms to the laughter of the other Shepherds, tapping his foot in thought before shaking his head.

“Forget it,” he growled. “You know what, Chrom? I take back what I said before. Let’s just rush him. Throw everything we have at him and there’s no way he can cope.”

“What?” Chrom asked, starting like he was only now beginning to pay attention to the conversation.

“Dear, pay attention,” Sumia sighed. “Robin said that you had a good idea.”

“Did hell freeze over?” Chrom asked, quirking a brow.

“We have ninety percent of the Shepherds here,” Robin explained, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Veterans that have faced the Risen countless times. He hasn’t summoned so much as a Chief to lead the mindless ones. It shouldn’t be too hard to roll in and take him down at this point.”

“That could change,” Cordelia added.

“All the more reason to strike now before it does,” the tactician responded.

* * *

“I don’t know,” Van said. “I’ve never seen the Boss like this before. It’s kinda… unsettling.”

He, Mari’ko, Galle and Arya were sitting in one corner of the square preparing their packs and weapons as the soldiers continued their frantic defense around them. Van had his entire kit spread out in the stones in front of him neatly ordered while Mari ran a special cloth along the blade of her sword. Galle was flipping through his spellbook, hastily re-inking the spells he’d been using while Arya watched the trio in silence.

“I have,” Galle said quietly. “Once, anyway.”

Mariko nodded without looking up.

“Back in Silva,” she said in a small voice.

“I wouldn’t know,” a new voice said with a sigh. “I was practically sidelined for that whole mission. Practice my spells my foot… Aversa’s just a sadist.”

The four tacticians looked up as a tall, broad young man wearing a Ylissean officer’s dress-tunic beneath a familiar black coat approached them, an easy smile on his clean-shaven face. The hilt of a massive greatsword peeked over his shoulder, but he barely even seemed to register the weight of the heavy weapon.

“Well I’ll be damned!” Van laughed, rising to his feet. “Isaac, how’re you doing?”

“Good!” the blonde man laughed. “Nice to see you too, Galle. Mari’ko.”

“All we’re missing now is the other idiot and we’ll have the full set,” Galle mumbled, the ghost of a grin flitting across his face.

Mari nodded her head respectfully in greeting, her expression never changing.

“Last I heard he was still in Nauta, helping Lady Aversa and Sahiri with the school,” Isaac shrugged. “His loss. We’ll just have all the fun without him.”

“You I don’t know, though,” the newcomer said, turning and grinning at Arya.

The youngest tactician squeaked, jumping to her feet nervously and snapping to attention.

“I-I’m… Arya, sir!” she stammered, practically shouting. “I-I-I’m Robin’s current… I mean he’s my… I mean…”

“She’s the new kid,” Van laughed.

The Ylissean placed a calming hand on Arya’s shoulder, grinning down at her. Arya bowed her head, stepping back from his hand and drifting closer to Galle.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” Isaac said. “You guys ready for what comes next?”

“Sure,” Galle sighed, closing his spellbook with a resounding clap. “Why the hell not? I’m sick of chasing this guy, anyway.”

Mari nodded her agreement, flicking her sword before returning it to its sheathe with one graceful movement.

“Crap. What, already? Hold on, let me put my kit back together…” Van said quickly, squatting down in front of his gear and hastily cramming it into his pouches.

“Nothing ever changes, huh?” Isaac laughed.

“You’d be surprised,” Galle murmured, casting a glance at Arya.

The young girl still lingered behind him, glaring warily at Isaac.

* * *

Robin glanced up from the map of the Coliseum he was staring at, laid out on a low crate in one of the quieter corners of the square, arms crossed and brow furrowed as he the sound of familiar footsteps interrupted his concentration.

“I’m only going to ask this once,” Chrom said in a concerned tone. “Are you good, Robin?”

“I’m fine,” he answered immediately.

There was a brief moment of silence before Robin sighed, standing up straight and running his hands through his hair.

“I mean… I will be. Once this is over and done with, and the last of Grima’s taint is… me again.”

“Don’t let Lucina hear you talking like that,” Chrom chuckled, rounding the table. “We’ve dealt with worse. We can handle one psychopath.”

Robin nodded slowly, before coming to a decision.

“Don’t worry,” the tactician snorted. “This won’t be a repeat of Steiger.”

“It had better not be,” Chrom scoffed. “Basilio would have your hide.”

“There’s something else at play here, Chrom,” Robin said after in a low voice. “Maris is a powerful warrior, sure, but he’s not…”

“You?” Chrom asked, the ghost of a smile on his face as he leaned back against the low table.

“I was bred to be the perfect vessel for Grima,” Robin said with a sigh. “And according to what I was able to find in my fa- Validar’s notes that took generations of trial and error. I refuse to believe that Maris is one too, purely by chance. There’s something I’m not seeing here, something I’ve overlooked.”

“I’m actually pretty sure Maris and Idallia are minor nobility,” Chrom said absently. “Related to me through some aunt or uncle or something. I don’t know, Royal Bloodlines are confusing. Frederick would know. But anyway, that would technically make them closer to Naga’s bloodline than anything else.”

There was another brief moment of silence before Robin growled, scrunching up his hair again.

“I can’t deal with this crap right now!” he moaned. “I’m too anxious! Forget strategy, we don’t need it for this!”

Chrom burst out laughing, shaking his head.

“You always did come up with your best plans on the fly, anyway,” the Exalt said.

Robin sighed again, sinking down into a nearby chair and propping his chin up on one hand.

“How’s Lucina and Sumia?” he asked, glaring at the maps.

“I assume you mean my younger daughter, and not your wife?” Chrom chuckled.

“You really got a head-start on the whole ‘dad-jokes’ thing, didn’t you?” Robin mumbled into his hand.

“I heard that,” Chrom laughed, before quieting. “Lucina is fine. Frederick has already taken her out of the city to wait with the other retainers that I brought with us. Sumia should be suited up by now. I am suddenly glad we thought to bring our armor, despite how much Jake protested.”

“Well, it is Regna Ferox. And as good a blacksmith as he is, Jake just likes to complain. Hard to believe she’s the same Sumia that used to be too afraid to fight on the frontlines, and tripped over her own feet constantly, though.”

“She still trips over herself, but don’t tell her I told you that,” Chrom laughed. “But in that respect it’s hard to believe that you’re the same amnesiac I found in that field that got lost in the forest outside of Ylisse.”

“And I still can’t believe that you’re the same hot-headed Prince that broke down stone walls when he trained,” Robin snorted.

“Yeah, I still do that, too,” Chrom admitted guiltily.

The two men sat and leaned in silence for a moment before bursting into laughter, doubling over as their shoulders heaved. After a few moments they quieted, Robin holding his sides while Chrom wiped a tear from his eye.

“I needed that,” Robin said. “Thank you Chrom. You’re always there when I need to laugh.”

“And I always will be,” the Exalt said, clapping a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Just say the word. Hell, you know I would have helped you with all of this mess a whole lot earlier, too.”

“I know,” Robin said, rising to his feet. “But you can still help me end it.”

“Oh sure, palm your dirty work off on me,” the Exalt sighed theatrically.

“Think of it as making up for all the years you did it to me,” Robin shrugged.

“Are you two going to kiss now, or are you just going to keep staring into each other’s eyes?”

Chrom jumped a little at the sudden voice, and Robin just sighed.

“No, Gaius, we’re not going to kiss.”

“Because I can come back later if you want,” the thief said with a grin, appearing out of practically thin air.

“Suggest it again and I’ll tell Panne to put you on a diet,” the tactician deadpanned. “What’s wrong?”

“Harsh, man,” the ginger-haired thief muttered before glancing up. “Lucina wanted me to tell you that everyone’s ready. We’re just waiting on our Godslayers to lead us to glory.”

Robin scowled for a minute before spinning on his heel and cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Panne!” he shouted. “Gaius is getting fat! Stop letting him-”

There was a loud screech from behind him, what Robin could only guess was the incredibly rare sound of Gaius panicking, before two desperately-strong hands were clamped over his mouth.

“I will kill you, you know,” Gaius whispered in Robin’s ear. “And no one will ever find the body.”

* * *

Idallia took a deep, shuddering breath as she tried and failed to calm herself. Sitting on a crate in the corner of the Coliseum’s market square surrounded by hostile soldiers, being ignored because her brother had apparently become a literal monster that was now threatening the entire world…

This was not how her day was supposed to have gone.

By now Maris was supposed to have destroyed the competition at the Khan-meet and she was supposed to be settling in to their new quarters. Sure, their tactics had been underhanded, and all of this had been her idea, but…

“Oh Naga this is all my fault,” she groaned, holding her face in her hands.

She should never have gone up against Robin, never have sent Maris to distract him; she should have been content with the power they had won in Themis through their hard work and not been greedy-

“What’re you still doing here?”

The would-be merchant-queen glanced up to find the same girl from before, the one from Chon’sin wearing the same black coat as Robin, smiling down at her.

“Shouldn’t you have gone with the rest of the civilians? Miss, uh…” the girl went on.

“Idallia,” she supplied.

The girl nodded, bringing her fist down into her open palm from above.

“Miss Idallia, right! Sorry, should that be ‘Khan Idallia’ right now?”

“Are you mocking me, girl?” the merchant asked, narrowing her eyes slightly.

“No, Morgan’s like this with everyone,” a new, male voice said with resignation.

The older woman could only laugh at Morgan’s reaction to the voice; a high-pitched squeal as she spun, looking for the source before launching herself at the tall young man with-

Idallia had to rub her eyes to make sure what she was seeing was true; rabbit ears. The young man that Morgan currently had wrapped in a bone-crushing hug was a Taguel.

“Bunny!” Morgan cried, rubbing her face against one of the drooping ears on the boy’s chest. “When’d you get here!? I missed you sooooooooo much!”

“Yeah, I get it,” the Taguel groaned, trying to pry her off. “I missed you too. C’mon, dear, this is a battlefield, remember?”

Without meaning to Idallia snorted as she tried to hold in her laughter; the girl’s good cheer seemed to be contagious. The Taguel arched a brow at her, but Morgan smiled up from beneath the long ear draped over her forehead.

“So are you coming with us then?” she asked innocently.

Idallia sobered, nodding.

“I had meant to, yes,” she said. “He is my brother, and this is… my mess.”

“No arguments here,” Robin said, appearing just long enough to shove a sword into her hands.

“Take this, keep to the rear and don’t get lost. And don’t try to run off. You’re still answering for all of this once we’re done.”

With that, the tactician disappeared into the press of bodies again, leaving all three standing, staring at the space he had vacated. After a second Morgan snorted, snickering a little as she shrugged at Idallia.

“Want me to see if I can scrounge you up some armor?” she asked.

“Yes please,” Idallia sighed.

* * *

An hour later and everyone assaulting the arena stood gathered near the northern entrance to the market as Robin climbed up onto a box to address the crowd.

“Alright everyone, listen up!” he shouted. “Simple plan! Three groups, two on foot, one in the air. Aerial group, wait for us to engage and then hit him hard from above; that’s our Pegasus Knights and our manaketes! Cynthia, play nice with Fae! Everyone else split into two groups, you know the drill! Even teams like we always did. Chrom and I will lead one; Arya leads the other! Galle and Mari will back her up-”

“What!?” Arya cried from the crowd of warriors, her face turning ashen.

Galle’s jaw dropped next to her, and even the usually impassive Mari’ko’s eyes widened at the announcement. Small, disapproving muttering rippled through the crowd until Chrom shouted for silence.

“I trust Robin’s judgement!” the Exalt yelled. “He’s yet to steer us wrong! After all this time I assumed you’d all remember this!”

“Yes, thank you Chrom,” Robin sighed. “As I was about to say, I want Morgan and Say’ri’s group to go and back her up. This is no different than Silva, so all of you can relax.”

“Er… sure thing, Dad,” Morgan said uncertainly.

“If there are no more objections, we leave in fifteen!” Robin said, stepping off the crate. “Make your final armor checks and buddy-up! We survived Grima, we can handle this. Idallia, you’re with me! Front and center!”

There was a moment of silence before the gathered veterans sprung into action around Arya, the young trainee looking down at the ground as anxiety set in.

“Well, I guess Robin knows best,” Galle shrugged apathetically.

“I’m not ready!” Arya practically shouted.

Galle sighed, running a hand through his hair. Arya made to continue to protest, but found herself being spun around by Mari.

“Be silent,” the Chon’sinian said in a harsh whisper. “You are the tactician. The leader. The soldiers will look to you for their courage. When you chose this life you lost the right to feel fear or doubt.”

Arya blinked in surprise at the usually silent woman’s outburst, mouth moving without making any sound as she tried to organize her thoughts.

“B-but…” She muttered weakly.

“She’s got a point,” Galle shrugged. “Besides, we’ll be right there with you the whole time. Think of it like a test. You’ll be fine.”

Arya nodded unsurely, taking a few deep and shuddering breaths as she tried to calm herself.

“I-I’ll be fine,” she repeated. “I’ll… be fine…”

Repeating that she started moving towards where Robin and Chrom were showing Morgan the route to take to the Coliseum on a map, her steps still a little uncertain. Galle and Mari watched Arya go, the two tacticians sharing a glance before the Plegian let out a deep sigh and let his shoulders droop.

“We’re all going to die,” Galle deadpanned.

“She’s not ready,” Mari muttered.

“No kidding,” Galle sighed. “We’ll stick close to her. Make sure she keeps her head straight.”

Mari quirked her head, the unspoken question of what to do if Arya did lose her cool lingering between them.

“I am so glad Grandmaster Morgan is playing babysitter instead of us…” Galle sighed.

* * *

Back in the center of the arena Maris glowered, holding his hand out palm-down from atop his gryphon. Dark purple smoke, so thick it was almost black, fell from his open palm, flowing like water along the ground as more Risen climbed up and out of it.

With an irritated snarl Maris closed his fist, fighting the urge to lash out at the closest objects.

Still he couldn’t summon anything stronger than the weak, mindless Risen that were little better than fodder.

He opened his hand again, studying it and absently wondering where Idallia was.

She was probably in her quarters, putting on a nice dress or something.

She would have to look her best for her coronation, after all.

Maris paused, glancing up, his red eyes narrowing slightly.

Did Feroxi Khans even have coronations? It didn’t matter, they would have one anyway. Idallia had worked hard. She’d protected him, defended him and loved him for all these years. She deserved to be Khan. Hell, she deserved that, and to be Exalt, and to be Queen of Plegia.

She deserved the world, and if she asked Maris would deliver it to her.

Maris shook his head as darkness clouded his vision.

Where was Idallia, anyway? Shouldn’t she be here with him, reveling in their glory?

The Khan, the big, one-eyed one, had fled. Surely that meant he had surrendered?

Didn’t that mean that she was Khan Regnant now?

With shaking hands Maris scratched at the skin on his face, the gauntleted fingers rubbing his flesh raw.

He glanced up, frowning. He was surrounded by shuffling Risen, the mindless creatures moaning as they meandered around the arena floor.

Maris found them incredibly unsightly.

“Go!” he bellowed. “Kill our enemies! Destroy everything! Carve a path to our sister and return her to me!”

The former cavalryman grinned a little to himself, gently stroking the neck feathers of the gryphon beneath him. It crooned softly, its leonine tail swishing as it shook its head and ruffled its feathers, happily accepting its master’s adoration.

Soon… soon the tactician would be back, and they would settle things between them.

Maris could feel him, out there in the city, coming closer. Like a beacon of light in a thick fog. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see the energy coming off of him. He wondered just when he’d been able to start seeing things like that, but put it out of his mind.

It wasn’t important.

He would kill Robin.

He would rescue his sister.

And the world would bow to them.


	18. Chapter 18

The massive arena walls loomed before the assembled Shepherds, marching slowly and deliberately against the horde of shadowy Risen throwing themselves at the heroes. It was a joke, really. After the wars they had been through, the enemies they had fought, after killing the Fell Dragon himself, these Risen were little more than an annoyance. The Risen that had stepped on him outside of Southtown all those years ago had been stronger than these creatures.

Robin sighed, grimacing as a howl went up from the Risen and another wave began to charge.

“This is just sad,” he muttered, shaking his head.

He didn’t even have to try, simply obliterating the first rank of the monsters with a lazy, backhanded elfire spell. Chrom, Lucina, Vaike and Cynthia fell upon the rest of the creatures, grim faced at the monotony of killing the Risen like a chore now. Or in Cynthia and Vaike’s cases just plain bored. The tactician glanced over his shoulder, a stone-faced Idallia at his side, her borrowed armor just a little too big for her slight frame and the slim sword looking oddly out of place compared to her thin arms. Maribelle hung close to them, her guard for this mission as the group’s healer, and Tharja and her students were slightly further behind them with Gaius and Panne.

She glanced back at him, neither’s expression changing, and Robin scoffed before he continued walking. What the merchant was doing with them was a mystery to him. She’d backflipped at the chance to put her rabid brother down now that he was a Grima-infested monster but this mess was still on her, as were the lives of the Feroxi that had died today. Lately, a lot of lives could be laid at her feet.

“If you’re expecting me to stab you in the back, you’re mistaken,” Idallia said after a moment.

Robin smirked, absently lashing out at one of the Risen that slipped around Chrom and the others and reducing it to ashes with the point of his rapier with barely a thought. “Oh, I’m familiar with the old ‘foe-to-friend’ routine,” he said conversationally. “My own sister spent quite a long time trying to kill me, actually.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Idallia muttered sarcastically.

“I just hope you don’t think we’re going to show any leniency just because you’ve had a change of heart,” Robin said, frowning.

“My heart remains steadfast,” Idallia snapped. “However,” she went on, her tone softening. “It is obvious that my brother’s mind is no longer his own. I would see him put down, before he can sully our family name further.”

“Right,” Robin grunted. “Further than killing hundreds and forcing students out into the cold. It doesn’t get much more sullied than where you’re at, ‘Khan’ Idallia.”

“Spare me your self-righteousness,” she fumed, stomping past him. “I do not have to justify myself to you, of all people. What would you know of the burden of leadership, ‘Prince’ Robin, when you deserted your own nation and left it to rot?”

Robin froze, blinking a few times. He’d long ago put any thoughts of ruling Plegia to rest; Validar had been a usurper and had abused his power to bring the nation to the brink of ruin, killing hundreds of thousands of people in the process. Robin didn’t deserve to lead them. He’d made his peace with that.

But Idallia’s words still stung.

* * *

Arya took a few deep, calming breaths through her nose as they drew closer to the Arena again. Morgan, the Grandmaster Morgan of Ylisse, Princess of Chon’sin and daughter of the savior of Plegia, was at her side, whistling tunelessly as the marched over the ashes of the latest Risen to bar their path, the cloying purple-black ashes drifting up and becoming stuck in her throat with every breath she took. All around her the Shepherds, the real Shepherds that had slain Grima, spread out. And she was commanding them. Galle and Mari were at her back, and Kowrowa and Ita were among the press somewhere with Fae, but aside from them she was alone. And she was in charge. It was massively daunting, especially without Robin or Lucina there to be her safety net, but she had vowed not to let them down.

She would see the Rommel bastard dead, exorcise the demons that he had left in her mind and soul, and move on with her life. Just the thought of his rough hands on her flesh made her skin crawl, the memory bringing a spike of fear before she beat it back down. Not again. Never again.

“You okay?” Morgan asked from her side.

Arya glanced up, the older girl balancing the long sword she wielded across her shoulders as she looked at the younger girl with concern in her eyes. It was nice, at least, that Robin had seconded her to another Plegian.

“I know the Risen are pretty spooky,” Morgan went on as they continued to advance. “But these ones are kinda weak, and we’re old pros at killing them. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

Arya shook her head, her lengthening hair swaying with the motion. “It’s not… that. I’m just looking forward to putting an end to M-Maris… before he hurts anyone else.”

She internally cursed herself for stuttering, a habit that Arya had put great effort into breaking, and Morgan made a small sound of comprehension, her genial face dropping for a moment into something more serious before she grinned again.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get him,” she promised. “I faced down Grima’s Avatar myself once. This guy’s got nothing on that monster.”

Arya grinned a little and ducked her head reflexively as Morgan bumped her shoulder into the girl’s, giving her head a little shake. She just had to keep telling herself that she wasn’t the same child she had been when Maris had hurt her. It helped.

“Well, let’s see what my dad’s been teaching you,” Morgan said, changing the subject. “You call it. I’ll tell you if you’re right or not.”

Nodding and grinning again at the familiar way of phrasing Morgan had, Arya took a look at the assembled fighters. Mostly heavy infantry, with a few support fighters like the tacticians and mages. She didn’t like the way they were spread out, though, especially if there were still as many Risen in the Arena as there had been before.

“Group up,” she said. “If we’re too spread out the Risen may slip through. We present a united front in an inverted horseshoe formation, mages and support in the middle and armored fighters on the outside.”

Morgan nodded. “Good, I totally agree. That was an easy one, though,” she added with a wink.

The older tactician began relaying orders, the Shepherds bunching up and taking on the formation that Arya had suggested almost instantly. Clearly they were used to operating as a unit, working together. She found herself pressed up against a lithe woman in gypsy’s clothes, her pale pink hair all but shimmering as she held a well-cared for short sword. The woman took a moment to smile reassuringly at Arya before she went back to watching the front rank. Anna took up a position at her other side, the old bow she’d never seen the merchant actually use before currently resting in her hands as she gave Arya a little wink. Behind them Galle and Mari moved forward to reinforce the flank, keeping a careful eye on Arya. Honestly, she could do without the constant stares, but it was still reassuring in a way to know that she wasn’t surrounded completely by strangers. The other tactician from Ylisse, the one with the big sword that had introduced himself as Isaac, had slipped a breastplate on over his crisp dress uniform and was watching the left flank now, too. The Risen were still intermittently throwing themselves at the Shepherds, but the masked creatures barely even slowed them down. Arya marveled at the sheer brutal efficiency that each and every one of them showed as they advanced on the Arena, the tall walls of the inner Coliseum looming up above them and casting the area into shadows.

“We’re making good time,” Morgan said over her shoulder from a little way ahead of Arya. “It’ll be a close thing, but both teams should hit the Arena at the same time. We could wait, let the other team hit first if you wanted?”

“How do you know they won’t wait?” Arya asked.

Morgan smirked. “Because Vaike and Chrom are on their team. Trying to hold back those two is like trying to hold back a herd of wild horses.”

Arya grinned a little, considering this information before shaking her head. “Then I think we should just go for it. If they’re not too far off then it should be fine.”

Flashing another grin of her own Morgan nodded agreement. “Not exactly playing it safe, but I agree. Let’s try and get this wrapped up before my Dad gets here. Give the call.”

“Shepherds!” Arya shouted with only a moment of hesitation. “Into the Arena!”

There was a roar of approval as they started to move with more purpose, barely slowing as more and more of the weak Risen began to appear from the shadows of the Arena’s outer walls. The group barreled through them, barely even pausing to catch their breath as the weak creatures were reduced to so much ash underfoot. It wasn’t until the sand of the Arena floor became visible through the columns that held up the upper tiers and seating that their advance finally stalled, the Risen finally showing an organized resistance.

In the front of the horseshoe formation a younger man with hair the colour of pinkish steel gave a grunt, catching a blow from a wicked looking axe on the upper shield section of his steel armguard.

“They’re finally starting to get some fight into them!” he called out in warning.

The Shepherds’ advance finally slowed, the stronger creatures finally grinding their charge to a stand-still. The front line clashed with Risen creatures with actual weapons, rough iron blades and simple clubs battering at the Shepherds’ shields and armor as they struggled to push through. Arya noted with some concern that a few of the Shepherds were beginning to suffer minor injuries now, but two stunning women stepped forward with staves in their hands. One was wearing her armor over an Ylissean dress uniform, red hair cascading down the back of it, holding the shorter staff with one hand as she held her lance aside with the other. The other wore light silver armor over white robes and carried a heavy and wicked looking axe, her long platinum blonde hair perfectly straight as it cascaded down her back.

The woman in white healed a gash on the pinkish-haired man’s arm, clapping him on the shoulder before moving away.

“Thanks dad!” the man called after-

“Wait, that cleric is a man!?” Arya asked, eyes going wide.

Morgan snorted, bursting into laugher and holding her stomach with one hand as she doubled over.

“And Libra’s legacy of being the prettiest man in the army continues,” Anna sighed.

“I did try to convince him to grow a beard,” the woman wearing gypsy’s clothes muttered.

“Focus!” Queen Say’ri snarled over her shoulder from the front line.

“Ooh, we got in trouble,” Anna giggled under her breath.

Morgan took a deep breath, still smirking as she surveyed the situation again as she tossed a spell over the front line and incinerated another of their attackers in a flash of white-hot flames. The Shepherds had just about dealt with the Risen at this point, a few of them falling back a little from where the last of the creatures were being mopped up to take care of their wounds or sip from waterskins that the gypsy lady was passing out.

“Okay guys, keep at it, we’re almost there,” Morgan called out.

“Easy for you to say,” Galle grumbled. “We’re doing all the work!”

The Plegian tactician let out a grunt as Mari subtly elbowed him in the ribs, shooting him a weak glare. Arya had to stifle a giggle at the couple’s behavior as Morgan started talking.

“They’ll probably be stronger once we get into the arena,” she warned. “If he has even half a brain left Maris will be keeping his best in reserve because he knows we’re coming. Everyone ready?”

A chorus of affirmatives met Morgan’s question, and the tactician turned to Arya with another grin, bouncing the almost absurdly long sword up and down on her shoulder.

“Give the word, Arya.”

“Shepherds, advance!” Arya called out. “Maintain formation and… uh… advance.”

Mari and Galle snickered a little at her lame ending, but the rest of the Shepherds seemed to take it in stride. A few grins broke out, but no one else laughed as Arya’s face burned bright red with embarrassment.

As the group began to head towards the arena floor where they had left Maris, Morgan put a hand on Arya’s shoulder to get her attention. “I’m going to swap out Galle and Mari with Anna and myself, okay? You’ve done really well today, so stay close to them and don’t get killed.”

Arya just nodded, and Morgan gave her shoulder another pat before she jogged ahead toward Galle and Mari. Anna gave her a wink as she passed, catching up with the tacticians and slipping into the flank seamlessly with Morgan as the other younger tacticians pulled back. As she moved the merchant slipped her bow beneath her cloak and drew a short, thin sword of her own. The movement was so perfect it was almost as if it had been choreographed by a dancer; there hadn’t been a single moment where there had been a break in the formation.

“Having fun yet?” Galle asked sarcastically as he and Mari came alongside the younger girl again, their coats and weapons caked in the purple Risen ashes.

The other Plegian was irritably patting at his coat, trying to get the persistent layer of ash to come off of his prized garment, but Mari just impassively ignored it. Arya did, however, catch her sneaking a glance at Galle and smiling ever-so-slightly as he was cursing under his breath. Arya couldn’t help but grin, feeling a small iota of confidence returning as they entered the arena proper.

As quickly as that feeling of confidence materialized, it evaporated upon seeing the ocean of Risen waiting for them. The Shepherds’ formation came to a shuddering halt, eyes collectively widening as a few of the more vocal members let out groans or curses.

“Miss Fae, if you would be so kind?” Morgan called.

From the back of the group, where Kowrowa, Ita and Fae were lingering and conserving their energy, came a cheerful “Okay!” followed by the familiar popping, tearing sound of a transformation. In a matter of moments a draconian shadow loomed of the Shepherds, and Fae let loose with a mighty roar. The accompanying flames shot forth from her maw, emerald green fire reducing the majority of the Risen to ashes in an instant and creating a huge space before the Shepherds. Still, however, there were hundreds more where those came from.

Without warning Fae let out a pained groan and the shadow of the dragon above the Shepherds disappeared as she reverted to her human form.

“Fae!?” Arya called over her shoulder.

“There’s… so much of Grima’s essence floating about in the air,” the manakete responded, her voice thick. “It’s making me sick… I don’t think I can transform again…”

“You heard the dragon, Shepherds!” Morgan called. “Let’s take care of these jokers before the others get here! Olivia, check on Fae, everyone else, forward!”

The pink haired gypsy woman nodded, hanging back to where the two wolf shape-shifters were kneeling next to the manakete as the Shepherds surged forwards. Arya hesitated, concern for her friend turning into indecision as the rest of the Shepherds moved away from her. Galle and Mari waited silently, clearly wanting her to make the decision. As if sensing her gaze, Fae glanced up and gave Arya a weak smile and a little wave, and the Plegian girl let out a breath as she turned away and began jogging to catch up with the Shepherds.

“Took you long enough, but still. Good call, kid,” Galle said quietly.

Arya just nodded, forcing herself to focus on the Risen. She hadn’t spotted Maris yet, which was strange given the fact she’d last seen him riding around on a two-hundred kilo gryphon and she doubted he’d be far away from such a trump card. Ahead of them the Shepherd line met the Risen, Morgan giving a savage shout and swinging her long sword in a great arc to create a wave of dark energy that scythed down the front rank of the creatures.

“Do not use Sol to channel dark magic!” Queen Say’ri called out irritably.

“But it looks so cool!” Morgan called back.

“That is an ancient relic from our homeland and you will treat it with the respect it deserves, or so help me I’ll take it away from you!”

“Yes, mom…”

Arya was stunned that they could have so casual a conversation while slaying Risen, almost as an afterthought. Both women hadn’t stopped their attacks for a moment during their little exchange, even more of the creatures falling beneath their blades. Similarly, some of the other Shepherds almost looked bored now. The Risen were attacking in waves, like before, but nothing managed to get around the Shepherds’ line. The way that the creatures threw themselves against the unyielding wall of Shepherds almost made Arya think that…

“This is a trap!” she shouted, trying desperately to get Morgan’s attention.

“Yeah, I know,” the older tactician shrugged.

Arya goggled in shock for a moment before Morgan snickered. “Best way to deal with a trap is to just spring it. I’m wondering what Maris is playing at, though…”

Morgan trailed off, glancing up as the perpetual smirk fell off her face.

“Incoming!” she shouted.

Arya glanced up in time to see a massive shape leaping from the East Khan’s balcony and barreling through the air towards them. Just before it hit the hard-packed earth of the arena floor the gryphon extended its wings and gave a mighty flap, buffeting the Shepherds with wind as it made a low pass over the front line. With surprised yelps three of the Shepherds, the steel-haired man, another man in armor similar to Queen Say’ri’s, and Severa, were thrown from their feet as they deflected the gryphon’s razor sharp talons. As the creature rose back up into the sky a black armored form dropped from its back, ignoring the uniform howl that the remaining Risen gave as they redoubled their efforts against the Shepherds.

“Maris!” Morgan growled. “I was wondering when you’d show up. You know, for someone who’s caused all this trouble I was expecting something a little more… I dunno. Threatening? I’m not impressed.”

“You talk a lot,” the former knight hissed, his voice muffled by the helm he wore. “Just like him… you stink like him too… the tactician…”

“Who, my dad?” Morgan asked curiously.

Maris froze for a second before his shoulders began to tremble with laughter. Behind him the gryphon hit the ground, letting out an ear-piercing squawk as it began to bat at the Shepherds with its massive front paws, Risen pouring around it. Maris, still laughing, threw himself forwards blade-first, crashing into Morgan’s guard so hard he actually pushed her back.

“You’re his daughter!?” the former knight snarled. “Excellent! Beautiful! I’ll kill you and give him your head before I kill him!”

“You can try,” Morgan said, her grin at odds with how strained her voice was. “Honestly? Still not all that impressed.”

With a grunt Morgan swung her ancient sword, another flare of dark magic accompanying the blow and throwing Maris back, a thin scar appearing across the front of his armor where he hadn’t been able to block. The tactician leapt at him this time, bringing her long sword back around in another arc to behead the former knight. Maris caught her weapon with his own, snarling wordlessly as they pushed against one another, neither able to force the other back.

Arya watched, her awe warring with the terror she felt as she watched the Grandmaster dueling with the former knight. Beside her Galle and Mari stood with their weapons ready, prepared to leap in and assist Morgan, but there was no opening to do so. The two duelists separated and struck blows against each other that the three could barely see, and even Arya could tell that they’d only get in the way. Behind the duel the other Shepherds were busy with Maris’ crazed gryphon and the rest of the Risen, seemingly stronger now. Or perhaps, Arya realized, the Risen had been faking their weakness. It had been a trap all along.

Maris had played them, drawing them in perfectly.

Even if Morgan had known the extent of his trap she was busy fighting the man now herself, and from what Arya could see they were evenly matched. Maris mirrored her every blow, utilizing the shorter reach of his sword to slip around Morgan’s own and strike twice when she would only strike once. But Morgan made up for her lack of speed with reach, dancing out of his range and striking with the tip of her own sword, scoring his armor without taking a hit herself. This didn’t escape the larger man’s notice, either, his blows now being accompanied by enraged grunts and shouts as Morgan danced between them.

“Come on, Maris,” Morgan sighed eventually, stepping back from their duel. “You can’t hit me. You can’t even touch me. I faced down the Fell Dragon himself and held him at bay. You can’t beat me.”

The large former knight’s shoulders heaved as he took a step back himself, quickly glancing around and taking stock. The Risen were still distracting the majority of the Shepherds, both sides unable to gain a clear advantage against the other; the Risen had numbers, but the Shepherds had skill and experience. Maris turned back to Morgan, and Arya could tell that he was grinning beneath his helm. She shuddered, recalling when he had turned such a grin on her.

“I don’t need to touch you. You may be untouchable, true…” he rasped, his voice rough as he turned slightly and his gaze fell on the other tacticians. “But them? The manakete and the kids? I don’t think you can protect them and yourself.”

Morgan’s eyes widened as Maris dashed forward, aiming straight for where Arya, Galle and Mari were waiting. Before she could intercept him, though, Maris’ gryphon fell on Morgan from above, forcing her to dodge aside and defend against the monstrous thing.

Arya’s heart almost stopped as Maris charged at them, Mari and Galle valiantly stepping forward to meet him. It wasn’t nearly enough, though. Maris sent Galle flying with a vicious backhand strike, the boy’s head snapping aside with an audible crunch as he few through the air.

Mari was much less fortunate. Giving a Chon’sinian warcry she rushed forward, meeting Maris’ blade on her own. To her credit she barely flinched as Galle went flying, deflecting Maris’ blow downwards and bringing her own sword up to strike at his throat. Only her sword wasn’t there anymore. She stumbled back, glancing down at the arm lying on the ground in a growing pool of blood. Her blood, she realized, as she looked at the stump where her arm had once been, neatly severed halfway down her bicep. Maris didn’t even slow, mercilessly driving his knee into her face and casting her aside as he stomped forward.

“I know you,” Maris practically purred as he spotted Arya. “You’re that little bitch that sold our shipping routes to that black market dealer, right? I’m going to enjoy taking another turn at you-”

With vicious howls Kowrowa and Ita descended on the former knight now, brushing past a frozen Arya to cut Maris off mid-rant. Morgan gave a pained shout as she continued to try to get around the gryphon, her face contorted by rage now as she saw her father’s students injured or killed. Arya just sunk to her knees, tears running down her face now as she looked at her two fallen friends, felled by the same man that had almost killed her... Galle wasn’t moving, and Mari had curled into a ball as she silently tried to staunch her bleeding. A hand on her shoulder made her jump as Fae, pale and unsteady, began to pull her away from the ensuing carnage as a trembling Olivia stepped between them and Maris.

Kowrowa, the larger of the two shape shifters, had latched onto Maris’ sword arm while Ita snapped at his legs, his face and neck, whatever she could get at around his flailing off-hand. Maris simply roared, batting her away with the body of her partner before bringing his mailed fist down on Kowrowa’s head. The wolf let out a yelp, his hold weakening enough for Maris to tear him off his gauntlet and throw him bodily at the recovering Ita.

A few of the frontline had noticed their predicament now, Owain and Isaac rushing to help. Screaming, the two men descended on Maris. Owain was the first to finally land a blow on the former knight, his sword striking deep into the man’s flank as he brought his weapon up to defend against Isaac’s bigger sword. With a pained shout he kicked Owain in the gut and spun, his blade flashing.

In a fine mist of blood Isaac’s head flew from his body, followed by a torrent of viscera as his body sank to its knees and toppled over.

“Isaac!” Galle cried, climbing unsteadily back to his feet, blood running from the corner of his ruined mouth.

Maris laughed, a deep, booming sound as he stomped forward again. Olivia stepped forward again, holding her sword in a single-handed grip. The unarmored woman had stopped shaking, but the former knight dwarfed her the same way he did Arya. He paused for a moment, seemingly insulted that she would even try to face him, but that moment of over-confidence was the opening she had been waiting for. Like a flash of lightning Olivia leapt forward, spinning through the air and bringing her sword down on Maris’ neck. With a grunt the big man threw himself backwards, but Olivia didn’t let up. Her blows were like quicksilver, her sword a streak of silver light in the dim arena, her ethereal grace dropping Arya’s jaw. The assault barely lasted a few seconds, but already she had chipped off great rents in Maris’ black plates, such was the speed of her strikes. As she spun away her beautiful hair and clothes flicked out, and the former knight caught her hair in one meaty fist.

“Should’ve dressed for battle not the whore house, bitch,” Maris seethed.

Before she could even struggle Maris ran Olivia through the back, his sword protruding from her chest in a spray of blood just beneath her left breast. Her eyes and mouth wide in a wordless scream, Olivia dropped to the arena sand in a heap. Libra and the younger man he’d healed before both let out enraged howls as they tore into the Risen with reckless abandon now, trying to get at Maris with murder in their eyes.

Still shaking and hardly able to stand Fae moved between Arya and Maris, a defiant grin on her face as she looked up at the big man. Before the former knight could cause further havoc among the weaker Shepherds, though, there was a flash and a sound like a thousand thunder-strikes, accompanied by the pained cry of an animal cut short. Arya looked up thinking Morgan had finally used some spell to kill the gryphon, but the young Grandmaster looked just as lost as she did at the sudden annihilation of the corrupt gryphon.

“Maris Rommel!” a familiar voice boomed, full of rage.

Everything in the arena seemed to come to a halt as Robin strode in from the other end of the space, his face a mask of white hot rage as he led the Shepherds. With one spell Robin had reduced Maris’ gryphon to a red smear on the arena sands.

Without waiting for orders or confirmation Exalt Chrom let out a howl, blue flames practically exploding from his sword as he charged forward with the rest of the Shepherds into the rear of the Risen formation. Lady Tharja’s mages stepped forward, a torrent of spells and dark energy raining onto the Risen as the rest of the angered Shepherds caught the Risen between them and the remainder of Morgan’s team. Libra and the other man darted towards Olivia as another blonde woman with a healing staff appeared from behind Robin, moving towards where Galle was now cradling a deathly pale Mari at a dead run.

Maris simply grunted in the face of this new threat, tearing his damaged and dented wrist guard off and casting the black plate aside.

“About time you arrived, tactician,” he shouted. “I was getting bored killing your underlings!”

Another thinner form stepped up beside Robin, Idallia Rommel wearing a look of terrified disgust on her face in the wake of her brother’s carnage.

“Ah, sister! I was wondering where you had gotten to! I was so worried about you, you know? Come, let’s-”

“Enough!”

Maris stopped short at his sister’s shrill cry, hesitation sneaking into his posture. “Sister?” he asked uncertainly.

Before either could say anything else Robin took Idallia by the wrist, and with a flash of light they teleported across the arena, standing between Maris and Arya’s little wounded group. Idallia swayed, gagging at the sudden teleportation, but Robin was unfazed, looking at Maris with barely contained rage.

“What have you done to my sister, you-”

Before Maris could finish Robin brought his hand up, blasting Maris with a spell so powerful it literally shook the ground with its passing. When the light and smoke cleared and Arya could see again she gasped. Maris stumbled, falling to one knee and clutching at the ruined stump of his shoulder, his sword and his entire arm simply gone.

“How do you like it, you son of a bitch?” the older tactician growled softly as he slowly began to advance.

Maris brought his hand away from his shoulder, sticky black blood coating his gauntlet and oozing from the wound now. He seemed confused, looking back and forth between where his arm had been vaporized and the corrupt blood coating his hand as if he were unable to comprehend what had happened.

“Wh-what?” he managed to rasp. “S-sister? What just… s-sister!?”

The ex-knight looked up, tearing his helm off with his remaining hand and let out a wordless scream before looking up again. He gazed imploringly around Robin to where Idallia was standing before Arya and Fae, his face contorted in confused pain.

“What’s going on, sister?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “We… we followed the plan exactly? Why… why am I bleeding? Where is my arm!? What happened to my damn arm!?”

“I told you that you were messing with powers beyond your ken, Maris” Robin said calmly. “There’s only three people in this world capable of containing it. You are not one of them.”

“Liar!” Maris screamed, lurching to his feet. “I… I… I summoned these Risen! I command them! I’ll, I’ll summon more!”

The former knight, manic now, thrust his remaining hand at the ground. After a moment nothing happened, and his eyes widened further.

“How-”

“I am the literal Avatar of Grima,” Robin continued in his eerily calm voice. “You don’t seem to understand, so I’ll spell it out for you. All of those Risen? They don’t belong to you.”

Maris turned, his face becoming a paler shade of grey. Arya had to stifle a gasp as the Risen all collapsed into ashes at once, dropping their weapons and simply disintegrating. The Shepherds, as one, moved to surround Maris now. As if all of this had been part of the plan.

“Usurp as much of his power as you want,” Robin growled, pulling a strange, black-bladed dagger out from behind his back. “It won’t be enough.”

“Maris Rommel, in the name of the Exalt of Ylisse I find you guilty of treason and subversion of my authority,” Chrom declared. “The sentence for these crimes is death. What say you, Khan Basilio, Khan Idallia?”

“Death’s too good for him,” Basilio spat.

Maris spun again, his face dejected as he looked to his sister. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, looking to the ground. “In the name of Regna Ferox I agree with the Ylissean Exalt. Your sentence is… death.”

“No!” Maris screamed as tears began to run down his face, falling to his knees. “I did all of this for you! All of this! I… I became a monster so we could create a utopia in the north! Why!? Why are you betraying me!? Sister, please! I love you! I understand you more than anyone else ever will! You’re the same! You’re all I have left, please don’t abandon me! Please! Help me! Don’t… don’t let them kill me!”

The former knight looked up as Robin loomed over him, glaring down dispassionately.

“Are you going to do it this time?” Maris hissed, his breathing ragged. “You’ve already taken everything from me. You took her from me you bastar-”

Without a sound Robin drove Raziel, the dagger made from one of Grima’s fangs to be Falchion’s foil, through his armor and into his heart. As Maris died his head lolled to one side, a shocked, questioning gaze falling on his sister as his last breath left his body with a quiet sigh.

* * *

The next few hours passed in a haze for Arya. She was practically bundled away from the battlefield in the arena with the other wounded and put in a quiet corner of the tent that the rest of the injured were recovering in to calm down. She hadn’t known what to do, so she just sat there, waiting for someone to come find her.

Olivia had arrived first, leaning heavily on the steel-haired man’s shoulder. He’d set her down on the opposite side of the tent, and the two were still talking in hushed whispers. Eventually Galle arrived, too, silently slouching down next to her. His face had been healed, but he couldn’t disguise the pain in his eyes as he waited for Mari’ko. Arya glanced up at him, the older Plegian boy staring into space, and on impulse reached out and took his callused hand in one of hers. He barely seemed to register the move, but the way that his fingers tightened around hers brought her back to earth, grounding her and finally letting her begin to process what had happened.

Eventually Galle gave a great sigh, his grip on her hand loosening. “Well. Today sucked.”

“Y-yeah,” Arya nodded, not sure what to say.

“How are you holding up?”

“I… I’m not sure,” Arya admitted quietly. “After all this time he’s finally dead… after all the things I saw him do… all the things he did to me… but in the end I… I-I was t-totally useless…”

“Yeah, lotta that feeling going around right now,” Galle muttered darkly.

“I’m so sorry,” Arya said, her voice a shaky whisper. “B-because of me… you a-and Mari… you were… a-and Isaac…”

“We would have gotten our asses kicked if you were there or not,” Galle said softly. “I’m glad you were there, honestly. Means that the ass-kicking at least meant something.”

“I-is Mari…?”

“She’ll survive,” Galle sighed, his grip on her hand tightening again. “She was smart, used fire magic to cauterize the wound so she wouldn’t bleed out.”

They went silent again, taking solace in each other’s presence and simply holding each other’s hand. She clung to him for dear life, and he squeezed back just as hard. Neither knew how to cope with what had happened that day, what they had witnessed. The wanton carnage in the space of a few minutes chilled Arya’s very soul, something she didn’t think had been possible anymore. After another few moments Galle spoke again, his usually brusque and confident tone gone.

“I love her, you know,” he muttered. “I’ve never said it. Not to her, or to anyone. I… for a moment there I was worried that I’d never get the chance to actually tell her. Grima, one of my best friends is dead, and all I can think is ‘thank you to all the gods above that she’s still alive’.”

Arya remained silent, not knowing what to say. She hadn’t known Isaac, nor had she ever had anyone close enough to mourn the passing of when she’d lived in the slums. Death had been her constant companion all those years, following behind her and taking indiscriminately, but never managing to overtake her. Once again she had managed to survive where others hadn’t. That was what she was best at; surviving.

Galle gave a shuddering sigh, closing his eyes for a moment before speaking again.

“No one else is going to say it,” he said, his voice thick. “Hell, that’s probably why they sent me to wait here. But none of this was your fault, Arya. We… we were outclassed. Lady Morgan and, and that monster Maris, and Robin, they… they’re all in a class way above our own. We weren’t ready to fight on that level. I don’t think we ever will be, to be honest. But nothing that happened was your fault.”

“Thank you, Galle,” Arya whispered, leaning against his arm and burying her face in his shoulder.

They remained that way until the light outside faded as the day wore on into evening, neither saying anything nor even needing to. Eventually a slumbering and exhausted Mari was brought in and set down near them, covered from the neck down in a white sheet. If not for the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed Arya would have mistaken her for dead, but Galle visibly relaxed when he laid eyes on her again, and still the two sat in silence.

For the first time since she was a child, since before the wars and Grima and all the suffering that had followed, Arya felt safe with another human being.

As Arya leaned against her friend, both of them watching over her other friend’s recovery, she grinned a little to herself. She finally felt like part of a family again.

* * *

“I’d say it’s about time we address the big fat Ylissean elephant in the room,” Basilio declared.

The Khan and all the visiting royalty were seated or standing around in one of his audience chambers in the Lesser-Khan’s quarters, Western Ferox livery still displayed proudly on every surface. Chrom had to smirk; Basilio may have been confident, but he was not fool enough to count his chickens before they hatched.

Say’ri glanced up from where Morgan’s clerk and unofficial spymaster was bandaging a small gash on her forearm at the edge of her white armor plate, giving Chrom a meaningful gaze. Across the room Mustafa and Algol muttered quietly between themselves, and the Imperial Valmese delegation had declined to attend the meeting. There were probably going to be months of paperwork and diplomatic meetings to smooth this disaster over, but Chrom would deal with the extra work when it happened.

In the center of the room Idallia Rommel, Khan Idallia, stood proud and tall next to Basilio. The big man dwarfed the Ylissean merchant, even more-so now that she had shed her borrowed armor. Chrom did note that she still had her appropriated sword at her hip, though.

“Plegia will not involve itself with this matter,” Mustafa declared. “As far as we’re concerned this is an issue between Regna Ferox and Ylisse.”

“You lot can clean up your own damn mess,” Algol scoffed before sobering. “We’ll be ready to account for the Ylissean slaves that the Prince feed in Saiqat, though.”

“Horrible business, that,” Mustafa sighed. “We’ll make sure that Abdul hangs for it, don’t you worry.”

Chrom sighed and nodded gratefully. Another political nightmare for him to sort through, one the Council of Elders in Ylisstol and the regional Dukes and Lords were not being quiet about.

“Chon’sin, too, will not interfere in this matter,” Say’ri said after a moment. “Fie, I should be thanking you, instead! Twas the most fun I’ve had in years!”

“Empress…” the black-armored General Kei’ji hovering at her side sighed.

The other warriors around the room chuckled a little at the Empress’ candor. They all knew exactly what she meant; peace time was a welcome yet difficult time for war-leaders. They were all feeling it. Mustafa had lost mass in his arms, yet found it around his stomach, and Algol looked almost ten years older since the battle at Origin Peak. Say’ri, while still as beautiful as she always had been Chrom wasn’t ashamed to admit, had more lines around her eyes and mouth, most likely from frowning rather than smiling. He knew that he, himself, had lost much of his muscle mass from his time fighting against Grima, but at least he could be confident he hadn’t let his skills atrophy too badly after the day’s tests. Sumia, too, even if she had taken more to being a mother and a Queen than a warrior in the last few years. Basilio had fared the best out of all of them, thanks to the warlike Feroxi way of life, but even his short goatee was mostly grey now.

“Well then, Basilio?” Chrom asked. “Guess it’s up to us. What do you think?”

Idallia glanced up at the giant at her side, Basilio giving a thoughtful hum as he stroked the short beard on his chin and let the moment linger.

“As much as I hate to admit it,” he said slowly. “Everything they did here in Regna Ferox was legal. Insofar as the Khan Meet is concerned. Her rank stands. Idallia is Khan of Eastern Regna Ferox, and cannot be charged for her minor transgressions.”

There was a moment of silence, shocked gazes meeting Basilio’s statement as the big Khan crossed his arms. Idallia, however, was by far the most surprised. Any other time Chrom would have found her wide eyes and gaping mouth comical enough to draw a laugh.

“But seeing as Eastern Ferox’s Champion is dead,” Basilio went on with a rougish grin, “I’d say that means you lost the Meet. So old Basilio is Khan Regnant once more.”

“Well, we can all definitely agree on that,” Sumia piped up from Chrom’s side. “But letting Idallia keep her rank? Are you sure, Basilio?”

“Why don’t we let the girl speak for herself?” the older man shrugged, glancing down at Idallia. “Well girl? Speak!”

She blinked at him in disbelief for a moment before shaking her head and pinching the skin between her eyes, a stricken expression on her face. “Either this is an incredibly cruel joke or you are completely mad. Either way, I’m not entirely happy with this outcome.”

“I am getting on in years, I could be going senile already,” Basilio guffawed before growing serious and addressing the room. “There’s some truth to her plans and schemes, at least where Regna Ferox is involved. We have resources aplenty, but the majority of our people are warriors, not farmers or miners or even lumberjacks. We have no knowledge of these things, or too little and too spread out. It was made worse after fighting with Plegia and Valm for so damn long. There’s just too few of us left to go on the way we always have. We need infrastructure. We need a path into the future. We need a merchant. Simple as that.”

As he finished he placed a hand on Idallia’s trembling shoulder, glaring at the other leaders in the room as if daring them to disagree with him.

Say’ri was first to break the silence, sighing as she rotated her wounded wrist and tugged at the bandages. “Chon’sin stands by our declaration to have nothing to do with this, and we meant it,” she said, rising. “If there is nothing else of import, I would see to my daughter. It has been far too long since she and I spent any time together not surrounded by aides and servants. Good day.”

With that she rose and bowed to the assembled leaders, her attendants silently emulating her before following her from the room.

“I stand by my statement, too,” Mustafa said, far less eloquently. “Exalt Chrom, I’ll have my people contact yours in regards to this Saiqat business through the proper political channels. I think it would be best for both Plegia and Ylisse if we were as transparent about this as possible.”

Chrom nodded, bidding the two Plegian men farewell. Now it was just the four of them in the room. Basilio clapped his hands, a grin rising to his face.

“Well, now that that’s settled-”

“Are you all daft!?” Idallia practically shouted. “After everything I’ve done, all the people I’ve hurt, you’re just going to… going to…”

“I was going to say ‘now that that’s settled we can talk about how you’re going to make unofficial reparations to Ylisse’,” Basilio said when Idallia calmed herself, quirking one shaggy brow. “You can start by footing the bill for Robin’s new fort. Then you and I are going to Ylisstol to make a formal apology for your behavior. After that… you’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Idallia,” Sumia said, rising from her seat next to Chrom’s side.

Instinctively the Exalt flinched, Basilio shooting him a questioning glance. He couldn’t help it. This wasn’t Sumia his wife or Sumia the Pegasus Knight speaking right now; this was Sumia the Queen-Consort of Ylisse, and frankly that woman terrified him. He only had to deal with ‘Queen Sumia’ when he did something particularly stupid, or cop the periphery of her when she was scolding the girls, but it still made him flinch all the same. Her entire bearing changed. She became the perfect, indomitable, regal Queen that even his sister hadn’t been.

“I want the truth,” she said. “Did you have anything to do with the slaves in Saiqat? Answer me honestly."

“Of course not,” Idallia said, holding Sumia’s gaze. “I sent workers to Alvin’s vineyards, but if I had known what he was doing I would have reported him myself. I sold contracts to Alvin, not the people themselves; contracts as easy to break as walking away. Everything I have done I still believe to be for the greater good; slavery is something I will never tolerate.”

Sumia nodded, her face relaxing into a soft smile, and Chrom let out a subtle sigh as his wife returned.

“Good,” Sumia said. “I’ll take you for your word, then.”

Idallia nodded slowly. “Are… you all daft?”

Basilio snorted before bursting into laughter, holding his stomach as his shoulders heaved.

“A little,” Chrom shrugged, grinning as he stood to wrap an arm around Sumia’s waist. “It helps when the paperwork piles up. You were a merchant, though, you’d have to have coping strategies for the paperwork.”

“I drank,” Idallia deadpanned.

“I’ll drink to that,” Basilio laughed, turning on his heel and beelining for a side cupboard very conspicuously full of liquor. “Been a long day, anyone else want something?”

“Yes,” Chrom, Sumia and Idallia all answered in unison.

* * *

Robin watched silently from a terrace in Basilio’s suites as Maurice and Idallia’s people led the citizens of the Coliseum back into the giant building, the mass exodus of Feroxi people being slowly undone now as they returned to their homes in the country’s de-facto capital. The stink of smoke combined with Risen ash still tinged the air, but he guessed they wouldn’t even notice.

With a shudder Robin leaned hard against the railing, resisting the urge to vomit. Grima’s power had left its mark on him once more. He could feel without having to look that the cracks behind his ear had spread beneath his hair. The nausea was a symptom of him trying to force the fell energy out of his body so quickly, he knew, but the knowledge didn’t really help.

His soul felt dirty. Befouled. How he could ever manage to hold Emm again he didn’t know.

He’d finally, in his mind, crossed a line. It had only been for a brief moment, a fraction of a second, but he had controlled the Risen that Maris had summoned. He hadn’t even known if he could, the spell leaping forth from his mind as naturally as breathing and allowing him to dispel them.

And the thought that it had been so natural, so easy, distressed Robin more than he cared to admit.

He didn’t turn at the sound of footsteps on the stone floor behind him, rising back to his full height and allowing Idallia to approach him.

“I’m sorry for the loss of your student,” she said after a moment.

“I’m not,” he said, his voice hollow as he watched the Feroxi people. “He died doing his duty, protecting the people. His life was short, and his potential snuffed out far too soon, but it wasn’t wasted. I can take solace in that.”

Idallia came alongside him, nodding slowly. After a moment she spoke, her voice hoarse. “I… am to remain Khan. Khan Basilio was most insistent. I think he sees it as a punishment, almost; making me clean up the mess I made.”

Robin glanced up at her, a slight frown tugging at his features beneath the unruly mop of his snow-white hair.

“I will still be travelling to Ylisstol,” she assured him. “He and I both, actually. We have to decide how best to make reparation to Ylisse for what I and my companions on the Southern Merchant Council have done. It’s… something that I feel I need to do.”

“Accept punishment?” Robin asked, going back to watching the people.

“Atone,” Idallia explained softly. “When all this started we… had the best intentions at heart. Regna Ferox is a land rich in resources, but with no infrastructure to make use of them. How much could Ylisse and the rest of the world benefit from the lumber and ores that this country simply doesn’t have the resources to refine?”

“All this for wood and dirt?” Robin scoffed.

“I do not expect you to understand,” Idallia said.

“Oh, but I do,” Robin said, shaking his head. “That’s the worst part. You had just motives and ideas, but you were too busy trying to line your own damn pockets in the process.”

“Not everyone is as pure and noble as you and your friends,” Idallia said, her voice almost ashamed. “Can you honestly tell me that you would have done what I plan to just to help the people? To gain nothing?”

“Yes,” Robin said, his voice becoming a whisper.

“Then you are a fool,” Idallia said, striding away. “And remember that your precious ideals are part of the reason we were led to this. You are no less guilty than I.”

For the second time that day, Idallia’s words cut Robin deeply. He had nothing to argue against her logic except that he was on the side of justice. Even if it didn’t feel that way at present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I done goofed on the Idallia switching sides thing in the last chapter. I tried to subtly build up to it. But there was a lot to fix in this story, and I think that was one of the things I didn’t do as much work on as I should have. And honestly, I didn’t cheap out with the whole ‘Robin absolutely f*cking annihilating Maris’ thing in this chapter, either. I'd always planned for it to go down that way. Robin is the literal incarnation of Grima. Who’s the Fell Dragon’s power going to listen to more, am I right?


	19. Chapter 19

Unlike their Ylissean neighbors, known for interring their dead in the ground, the people of Regna Ferox practiced cremation for laying their dead to rest similar to the Plegians. It just made sense in a desert nation, where much of the land was shifting sands. Rather than burning their dead with what scarce wood was available, though, scented oils and cloth were used as accelerants by the Dark Mages that presided over the ceremonies, using their magic to accomplish the task. Of course, there was a lot less fanfare to the Feroxi funerals, too. Just people standing around pyres, drinking and quietly reminiscing. A few Ylissean and Plegian mages, and more than a few priests, milled about, too. The mages would no doubt ensure that the fires did their job and burned the bodies to ash. The priests were, in Galle’s opinion, just making a nuisance of themselves. The Feroxi were a stoic race of people, made even harsher by the constant warring and fighting of their history. And it was because of this that Galle felt uncomfortable watching Isaac’s pyre burning that evening with Van and Arya.

The Feroxi had been quick, rounding up their dead and preparing pyres outside of the city-structure of the Coliseum. They wasted little time mourning, choosing instead to get the act over with so the living could move on and the dead could rest, and even if it felt wrong for Isaac Galle still respected their actions.

A great many pyres had been constructed, and the sky burned purple with smoke from the multitude of fires. As hard as they had tried, there had still been a lot of civilians killed, particularly during Maris’ rampage in the arena. It could have been a lot worse if they hadn’t arrived when they did, and to Galle’s eye civilian losses had been acceptable. Of course Robin would disagree, but he had trained them with their individual personalities in mind. As hard as Robin tried, there would always be casualties and collateral damage. It was just a fact of war, one Galle had learned a long time ago.

From his side Van gave a shuddering sigh as they watched the flames grow, engulfing Isaac’s body. He was laid on his back, a strip of gauze around his neck to hide the wound that had killed him, with his armor cleaned and polished and his sword held clasped in both hands at his chest. At least the Feroxi were advanced enough to put scented woods on the pyre to mask the scent of burning flesh, the strong smell of burning pine sap almost overwhelming. They were different to the spices and herbs that Plegians used, though, Galle noticed absently.

“I don’t know what to say,” Van said quietly. “I always imagined… you know… that if something happened to one of us that… someone would say something… He deserved better than this. After… after everything that he went through, everything we went through… he deserved better.”

“He died doing his duty, protecting the weak,” Galle said. “I don’t think anything else needs to be said.”

“Yeah,” Van said, looking down. “Thanks, Galle. I know… that would make him happy. You guys can head back. I’m just going to… say goodbye.”

“You sure?” Galle asked quietly.

“Yeah. Thanks,” Van said, his voice barely a whisper.

The Plegian boy nodded, resting a hand on Arya’s shoulder and nodding back towards the Coliseum. Galle knew that Van was trying to hide how hurt he was; the other tactician had been part of the rearguard with Sir Frederick that had taken the important non-combatants out of the city, namely the young Princess of Ylisse. It had been a vital mission, and they had all joked that this time it was Van’s turn to sit on the sidelines while Isaac went and stole all the glory.

And Galle knew that Van was blaming himself for not being there. He knew because that’s how he’d felt when Arin had been murdered in Saiqat. Van just needed some time to come to terms with it. He was too stupidly optimistic to wallow for long.

The two Ylisseans had made no secret of the fact that they had been friends since childhood, growing up and training to become Knight Cadets in Ylisstol together. The pair had shared a bond that had taken years for the other tactician students to form with each other, and Galle had to quietly admit that even he was a little hurt by the passing of the big Ylissean tactician.

“Will he… be okay?” Arya asked quietly.

Galle nodded. “He’s tough. He’ll bounce back.”

Arya remained silent, a thoughtful expression on her face the entire way back to their lodgings in the Khan’s chambers above the Arena. The four tacticians had been forced to bunk together in one of the servant’s rooms, but in Galle’s mind it beat having to camp again. Most of their group and Tharja’s mages were in adjoining rooms, except for Kowrowa and Ita who were licking their wounds in a stable somewhere.

Mari, still recovering from blood loss due to her wound, had been forced to stay behind. Brady had literally sat by her bedside with his arms crossed, glaring at the Chon’sinian girl as if daring her to try to get out of bed. The imploring look that she had shot him had made him snicker a little, but in the end Brady’s word was law where the wounded were concerned, and they had had no other choice but to leave her behind. She was recovering quickly, but the shock of losing a limb coupled with the blood loss and the exhaustion that came from magical healing was wearing her out. Add to that the emergency surgery to remove a chunk of bone so that Brady and the others could heal her stump without complications, and Mari was weak as a kitten right now.

Rubbing his jaw where Maris had broken it Galle had to wonder just what that freak had done to become so powerful. In fact, he wondered what the Shepherds had done, too. How did one go so far past the restraints of average humans and become, for lack of a better term, demi-gods like that? It defied logic and beggared belief. For all of Maris’ strength Robin had annihilated him with barely a thought. And Robin quite often bragged that both Lucina, Queen Say’ri and Exalt Chrom were stronger than him. It was a humbling thought, and a terrifying one.

But worse, it was frustrating that Plegia had no great, all-powerful heroes like Ylisse, Chon’sin and Regna Ferox did.

The rest of the journey to their temporary quarters passed in silence, neither having anything else to say. Arya was still somewhat shell-shocked and had reverted to a certain extent back to her quiet, unresponsive self of when they had first found her. She wasn’t as bad, though, so Galle was hoping she’d eventually snap out of it; asking after Van’s health was a good indicator, and she still had a glint in her eyes, the spark. A good meal, a bath and a good night’s sleep and she’d be fine.  

Night had fallen by the time they returned to their quarters, a frowning Brady and a very put-upon seeming Mari waiting for them. Arya mumbled a greeting to them both, moving across to her bed and collapsing face-first with a groan, making Galle smirk. It looked like the kid was skipping straight to the sleeping. Brady was first to speak as they came inside, glancing up and rubbing at the scar on his face tiredly.

“Where’s the other one?” he asked gruffly.

“Still at the pyres,” Van responded tiredly.

Brady nodded, rising with a groan and shuffling towards the door. “Been a long day. Why don’t ya kids get some rest?”

He stopped, turning on Galle with a fierce glower. “But she don’t get out of that bed ‘til tomorrow. ‘m I clear?”

“Crystal, thanks,” Galle said, rolling his eyes.

With that Brady left, doing his best to stifle a yawn and failing miserably. They were all exhausted, the healers more than anyone else. Galle had seen the various other healers in the Shepherds running around the temporary hospitals that had been set up all over the city for the wounded; he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Sure it was a beautiful altruistic move, but what if they were attacked again? Surely the healers should prioritize the soldiers?

His thoughts were interrupted as Mari shot into a sitting position the second the door closed behind Brady, and with a sigh he crossed to her side.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I need to-”

“Rest. You need to rest,” Galle cut her off, gently pushing her back down.

Mari huffed, looking away from him as she let him push her back down. With a tired sigh Galle perched on the stool Brady had been using at her bedside, resting his elbows on his knees. He didn’t particularly want to have this conversation, but he cared about Mari and someone needed to put what had happened into perspective, sooner rather than later.

“So what now?” he asked softly.

Mari turned her head just enough to look at him out of the corner of her eye, frowning a little.

“I do not understand your question,” she said flatly.

“I just mean… well…” Galle mumbled, glancing down at the bandage wrapped stump where her right arm used to be.

Mari snorted, something Galle could honestly say he’d never seen her do before.

“I have trained to be dominant with both hands,” she said.

“That’s not what I meant,” Galle said.

Mari rose into a sitting position, rounding on Galle with a rare fury contorting her face.

“Just say it!” she hissed. “If you think I am a cripple and I have no place on the battlefield than just say it! I’ll prove you wrong like I will everyone else! I will not give up my dream, not even for this!”

Galle reeled back from her, mouth agape in shock before he rallied. Mari swayed, though, no doubt using up what little energy she had left on her outburst. With a tired chuckle and a small grin he gently pushed her back into bed, running a hand through her hair once she was settled.

“I’d say you already proved me wrong,” he said softly. “I need to stop underestimating you.”

“Indeed,” Mari frowned, not batting his hand away from her hair.

“Then rest up, and tomorrow we can go back to you kicking my butt up and down the training grounds,” Galle said, bringing his face low to hers.

Mari rose up slightly, pressing her lips to his. When they separated a moment later Galle let his forehead rest against hers, closing his eyes and breathing in her scent. The thought that he might not have been able to share moments like these with her anymore sent a chill down his spine, but he put that out of his mind. Here they were, alive and well, and that was all that mattered.

“I love you, Mari,” Galle said, his voice barely a whisper.

Mari smirked, running her hand through his hair herself this time.

“You’re not very good at hiding it,” she chuckled, kissing him again.

* * *

Robin sat in the dark, focusing on his breathing. Deep, calming breaths. In and out. In and out. With each exhale a little more dark magic left his body, leaving him feeling tired and drained. It was easy to see why so many Dark Mages fell to excess and violence in the old days; the fell energies were like a drug, enhancing the feeling of everything yet still somehow dulling pain.

He was meditating in the room that he and Lucina had been given for the evening, a small box with a single high window and a bed barely big enough for one of them, let alone both of them. The window was shuttered and he sat on the edge of the bed, head low and eyes closed, just breathing.

The door opened, and still Robin didn’t move. A sweet scent, the flowered soap that Anna had conned Lucina into buying, wafted to his nose as his wife took a few steps into the room. Without speaking she moved around him, lighting the small lantern hanging on the wall and, judging from the familiar sounds of buckles being undone and leather hitting the floor, began to remove her equipment for the evening.

“I crossed a line today,” Robin finally said, his voice hollow.

He could hear Lucina freeze behind him, but focused instead on continuing to breathe.

“I saw,” she said simply.

“I’m sorry,” was all Robin could manage. “I lost my composure and-”

“Stop,” Lucina cut him off firmly.

This time Robin did look up, turning to see Lucina wearing nothing but the leggings and skin-tight top that she wore beneath her blue tunic. She was frowning, hands on her hips as she glared at her husband in a perfect mimicry of the way Sumia scolded Chrom.

“You always do this,” she continued. “Robin, you are not Grima, and you need to stop bearing that burden. Yes, you controlled the Risen today. I don’t even think anyone else picked up on it, aside from maybe Tharja and Morgan. But you did it to save us. To stop Maris. That’s not crossing a line, that’s just doing your job. So stop sitting in the dark and moping already. Flavia and Isaac, Naga rest their souls, would agree.”

“I was actually meditating and it got dark,” Robin said unconsciously.

Lucina sighed, shaking her head. “Look at you. You haven’t even bathed yet, and your coat is filthy.”

“Hey, be nice about the coat,” Robin snapped defensively.

Lucina’s frown deepened as she raised one eyebrow. Robin awkwardly cleared his throat, sheepishly rubbing at the back of his head.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Good,” Lucina nodded. “Now go get cleaned up. We can talk after that of you want. But make no mistake, you didn’t cross any lines today and you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Robin snorted, looking down again. “You must think I’m pretty pathetic right now. I’ve been doing this as long as I remember, and every time I lose a soldier I go to pieces…”

“No, I love you because you go to pieces every time,” Lucina sighed, sitting down next to him and taking one of his hands in hers. “Because even after all this time, when even I have gone numb to the sensation, you still feel every loss as if it were your first.”

There was a moment of silence, of stillness, before Robin squeezed Lucina’s hand. She squeezed back, and they let out a simultaneous sigh.

“Thank you,” Robin said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Probably sit in the dark and mope like a moody teenager,” Lucina said lightly. “Now go get cleaned up so I can hug you. I just bathed, I’m not getting dirty again.”

“It would probably motivate me a lot more if you came with me,” Robin suggested with a grin.

“I don’t think so, mister,” Lucina sighed. “Bath. Now.”

“Yes, dear,” Robin chuckled.

* * *

The next morning Sumia finally managed to corner Robin while he was washing his face, dragging him to a meeting with Basilio and Chrom and barely giving him enough time to dress properly. At points literally dragging him, given his reluctance to become involved in international politics again.

“I don’t care if you’re the queen or not, let me go or I’ll light my coat on fire!” he snapped as she dragged him through the Khan’s quarters.

“You and I both know that’s a bluff,” Sumia stated levelly.

“You can’t prove that,” Robin protested.

“So do it,” Sumia insisted, glancing over her shoulder at him.

Robin went silent, frowning and looking away.

“You forget I’m a mother now,” Sumia laughed. “You can’t out-stubborn me, not with my two girls. You of all people should know that.”

“Yeah, yeah, just ease off the coat,” he sighed.

Lucina was already waiting for them at the entrance to Basilio’s chambers, giving a small giggle as Robin stumbled when Sumia released him. He shot back up, clearing his throat and rolling out his neck as he attempted a slightly more dignified approach under his own power, straightening his coat as he did so.

“You’re the one that sicced her on me, aren’t you?” he asked Lucina.

“No, but if I knew it were that easy I would have done so years ago,” she laughed, rising up on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Good morning, dear.”

“Yes, good morning,” Robin groaned, feeling the irritation drain out of him in the face of Lucina’s smile.

“Let that be a lesson to you, Lucy,” Sumia said, hands on hips. “Men can be just as childish as their children. Sometimes you have to treat them as such.”

“I disagree wholeheartedly, stop putting weird ideas in my wife’s head,” Robin grumbled, crossing his arms.

“I see what you mean,” Lucina laughed, patting Robin’s arm. “It’s okay, honey. We’ll go get you a snack and some juice after this.”

“Oh don’t you start too,” Robin muttered dejectedly.

Both women laughed as he brushed past them, pushing the doors open and stepping into Basilio’s audience chamber. Robin tried and failed to not think of the fact that this had until very recently been Flavia’s chamber, feeling a frown rise to his face. Within Chrom sat with Frederick hovering at his shoulder like always, the Exalt positioned across from the two reigning Khans, Idallia and Basilio. Robin felt a spike of frustration seeing Idallia sitting with Basilio and Chrom as equals, but as much as he disliked the woman Basilio had apparently been very clear with how she was going to be treated.

A Khan in name only working ceaselessly to repair the damage she and her own had wrought, and eventually create a stable economy for Regna Ferox. A tall order, one that Robin was interested to see how she accomplished.

“About damn time you got here,” Basilio grumbled.

“He was probably trying to get out of the meeting,” Chrom said with a grin. “Sorry, old friend. They insisted.”

“Ah, so you’re the one that sicced your wife on me? That’s cold. I thought we were friends.” Robin deadpanned, crossing his arms.

“Oh stop making a scene and sit down already,” Sumia huffed, taking her own seat next to Chrom.

Robin sighed through his nose, he and Lucina taking their own seats. The three parties were arranged in a rough triangle, Robin and Lucina’s seats facing the other two. Absently Robin thought that he should have brought Arya along for this; it would have been a valuable learning experience for her, but it was too late to send for her now.

“So what’s so important I had to be dragged out of retirement?” Robin asked with a sigh.

“We are here to discuss Idallia’s ‘reparations’,” Basilio said, steepling his fingers. “Seeing as you were directly affected we felt it prudent you be here.”

“I don’t see a representative from Silva here,” he pointed out.

“Silva is in my territory and none of your business,” Idallia snapped.

“Easy now,” Chrom said, his tone carrying a clear warning. “It wouldn’t be too late for me to demand you clapped in irons, ‘Khan’ Idallia. Show some respect.”

Robin grinned a little as Idallia grumbled a barely perceptible apology, Basilio letting out a deep sigh from her side and dropping a hand on her head.

“Girl, you’re going to have to learn to play nice with others,” he rumbled, messing up her perfectly straight hair.

Idallia held her tongue, but it was clear what she thought of the company she found herself in from the glare she turned on the room.

“To start,” Basilio began. “She and I are both going to travel to Ylisstol to issue a formal apology. Then we’re signing over all of her mercantile rights and trade deals to the Annas and the Exalt.”

“I’ll bet she didn’t like that,” Robin said with a smirk.

“I don’t,” Idallia seethed. “And do not talk about me like I’m not here.”

“Tough, you’re being punished,” Basilio snorted. “After that we send the proceeds to you to cover the new fort that I’m hearing is just about done, then use the rest to rebuild Silva. Then we sit down and discuss a couple of new trade deals between Ylisse and Regna Ferox.”

“And I promise I will not be gentle,” Idallia muttered, glaring pointedly at Chrom.

“You know, you’re real wordy when you’ve got someone in your corner,” Robin snapped, losing his temper. “Make no mistake Idallia, like Basilio said, you are being punished.”

“I am aware of this,” Idallia spat venomously. “That doesn’t mean I won’t do my job. You get quite ‘wordy’ yourself in front of your friends.”

“After that,” Basilio said, his strong voice silencing their argument before it could begin, “we’ll set about creating a stable, universal currency for the north. One accepted in Eastern and Western Ferox. And from there… we didn’t get that far.”

“Build the economy,” Idallia sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Yes, we’ll build the economy,” Basilio said quickly. “But first we got to Ylisstol.”

Silence fell, Robin and Idallia glaring at each other across the space before Chrom turned to Frederick and spoke.

“Send a messenger back to the palace, have them prepare the good guest quarters,” he almost sighed, turning to Robin and Lucina. “I assume you two will be coming as well?”

“I guess so,” Robin said, his eyes never leaving Idallia’s. “Do you really need both of us, though?”

“You are not getting out of this,” Lucina said lightly from his side.

“Yeah, trust me, that much I get,” Robin scoffed, finally breaking off his glaring contest with Idallia to look at his wife. “But we have wounded. I’d like to send them back to the fort in Nauta while we’re this close. And I’d like to remind Emm that she does, indeed, still have parents.”

“You want me to… go back?” Lucina asked incredulously.

“It’ll just be another month or so,” Robin sighed. “I’ll be right back. But I am worried about Emm. Her being around Aversa alone for so long… just thinking about it gives me chills.”

Lucina frowned, but didn’t object to his reasoning. Clearly the thought of finally being able to go and see their daughter again appealed greatly to Lucina. Chrom cleared his throat in the silence, rising to his feet.

“I’ll leave those preparations to the two of you,” Chrom said judiciously. “If there’s nothing else, we should all begin our packing.”

“Seriously, you called us all here for that?” Robin groaned.

“These things… usually take longer,” Chrom mumbled, rubbing the back of his head.

“Because usually there’s a crowd of nobles and their representatives all trying to speak at once,” Frederick muttered, frowning.

“And now you see why I’m retired,” Robin said with a smirk. “It’s much easier to corral teenagers. Just threaten to increase their homework load.”

“Somehow I don’t think that would work on the Ylissean Court, dear,” Lucina sighed.

* * *

That afternoon Robin had gathered the entirety of his little Shepherd group in one of Basilio’s large rooms, the team sitting or standing around casually now that the threat had been dealt with. Tharja and her mages were present as well, his problem for having been brought into the situation by Robin. The tactician stood before the assembled Shepherds, hands clasped behind his back.

“So, as some of you are no doubt already aware I’m supposed to foot the bill for a tropical vacation now,” Robin said.

“Try all of us,” Severa said.

“We didn’t know!” the dark mage girl Femi said.

“A vacation does sound nice, though,” another mage, one of the twin boys that Robin couldn’t for the life of him tell apart, said.

“Silence,” Tharja hissed at them, narrowing her eyes.

“Thank you, Tharja,” Robin said with a nod. “Now, unfortunately that will have to be pushed back some while I deal with the last of the fallout from this situation in Ylisstol. I’ll be taking a small group with me while the rest of you go to Nauta to prepare.”

“The ship’s going to depart from the port in Nauta, then swing around south to pick up Robin’s group in Southtown,” Anna said helpfully. “At least it will once I book it. I’ll call in some favors so it won’t be too expensive for you.”

“Yes, thank you Anna,” Robin said, far less enthusiastically than when he’d thanked Tharja. “At least I don’t have to do as much walking now.”

“So who’s going with you, then?” Fae asked from her perch next to Arya.

Robin nodded gratefully at the manakete. “Good question. I’ll be taking Arya, of course. And Galle, if he’s still willing. And… that’s really it.”

“You weren’t kidding about a small group,” Galle grumbled. “Maybe I wanted a break?”

“He will join you,” Mari spoke up from next to the Plegian boy.

Galle opened his mouth to protest, but snapped it shut when he turned to look at Mari. “Fine,” he sighed, slumping in his chair.

“We will go, too,” Kowrowa said from the back of the room. “Where you go, we go. Our Queen was clear on this.”

Ita huffed but otherwise remained silent, crossing her arms as her ears twitched in annoyance.

“Mind if I tag along?” Gaius piped up from close to the wolf shape-shifters in the back. “I have some, uh, acquisitions it would be easier to move in Ylisstol.”

“Legal acquisitions, right?” Robin deadpanned.

“Well, Bubbles, I’m not going to lie to you,” Gaius shrugged.

“You didn’t answer my question, either,” Robin pointed out.

“I am aware of this,” the thief said with a smirk.

“Alrighty, then, the rest of you go with Lucina back to Nauta,” Robin said, rolling his eyes. “Arya, Galle, get your things together. We leave with the Ylisseans this afternoon. Gaius, I am not helping you move stolen goods. You’re carrying them yourself.”

Small conversations began to break out in the room, many of the younger Shepherds and mages excited at the prospect of the vacation. “They have wagons, right?” Galle asked no one in particular.

 “Actually, sir, I’d like to go as well,” Van said, standing.

The room grew quiet again as all eyes fell on Van, the mood becoming heavy.

“I don’t have a problem with it,” Robin shrugged. “But why?”

“Isaac,” Van said seriously. “He was a Tactician for the Knight Orders in Ylisstol. I… have already spoken to Knight Commander Frederick and Wing Commander Cordelia. I’m… to take his place. I think it’s what he would have wanted.”

Robin sobered, his face a carefully neutral mask before he broke into a sad grin.

“You know, I think you’re wrong about that. I think he’d be worried you’d make him look bad. But I approve. I didn’t train you lot to be my personal army. I trained you for tasks like these. You have my blessing, Van.”

“I’ll make you proud, Sir,” Van said with a nod. “Both of you.”

“You already have,” Robin said. “Better go get your kit together. I know how you sprawl out if we set down for more than an hour.”

Van nodded, his own face breaking into a grin as he, Galle and Arya hurried from the room. Or he and Arya did, and Galle was caught up in their wake. Mari followed after them, pausing to give Lucina and Robin a respectful bow before exiting.

“Everyone else, relax. It’s vacation time. See you in about a month,” Robin declared.

* * *

Lucina gave a sigh a few hours later as she set her pack down in the pile with the rest of those heading north to Nauta. The gear was being gathered in one of the great terraced entrances to the Coliseum, the entrance of choice for large convoys of supplies and goods and visiting dignitaries alike. The only thing Lucina could liken it to was the docks of a seaside city, yet totally landlocked. There was a hustle, a desperate liveliness to the people working as they tried to get back to normal as quickly as possible. Or as normal as Feroxi get, considering she’d seen three fights break out in the land-docks in the last hour that were apparently ‘business as usual’. Wagons of every size and shape brought vegetables and fruits from the south, as well as lumber and quarried stones to repair the damage Maris had done. Animals milled about, too; chickens and pigs brought to the city to be sold or bartered, adding to the general confusion and chaos.

The new group of Shepherds that Robin had assembled were departing right after Robin and her father left for Ylisstol, and it would be the first time in years she would be away from her husband for more than a few hours. She was shocked to find just how much the thought disquieted her.

Footsteps behind her made her glance up, Owain, Severa and Noire approaching from within the Coliseum.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Severa asked without preamble.

“Yes, Severa,” Lucina said with a weak smile. “He would not have announced it if I had not agreed.”

“It just feels… wrong,” the red-head stated, searching for the right word.

“You two have been inseparable since Valm,” Noire added. “It’s going to be strange not seeing you together.”

“It’s only for a month,” Lucina laughed. “We’re not attached at the hip, you know. Besides, I have been away from my daughter for far too long.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see little Emmy!” Noire practically squealed. “I haven’t seen her since she was a baby! She must be so big now!”

“She has gotten big,” Lucina agreed, a wistful expression rising to her face.

“Ah! Lucy I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to… I didn’t…” Noire stammered.

“Argh! My sword hand burns!” Owain shrieked, holding his wrist downwards.

“I think Brady can make a salve for that,” Lucina laughed.

Severa sighed, smacking her ‘fated companion’ in the back of the head. The blow was far softer than she used to hit him, though, Lucina noted with a small grin.

“Robin was right,” Lucina said, her smile much more genuine now. “There’s no need for both of us to go, and Emmeryn has been alone for far too long. I… miss her dearly. I am honestly more worried for Robin without me there to keep him in line.”

She said the last part with a laugh, but Severa nodded sagely as she jabbed Owain in the ribs with her elbow. “I’d be worried about him, too. These louts can’t do anything right without us there holding their hands.”

“If you are so worried than perhaps Owain Dark should accompany him,” Owain declared in his best stage voice.

“That would merely make me worry more!” Lucina laughed.

“Seriously,” Owain said, dropping his ‘Owain Dark’ persona. “I don’t mind going with him if it’ll make you feel better.”

Severa frowned, crossing her arms and glaring at the blonde man.

“Oh don’t look at me like that, my fated companion,” Owain chuckled. “Absence, as they say, makes the heart grow fonder. Besides, I’d like to see how this timeline’s me is growing up. Make sure he’s doing okay. I’ll check in on this timeline’s you, too, if you’d like?”

“Don’t you dare,” Severa seethed.

Owain smirked, holding his hands up in surrender as he stepped back a little. Noire giggled behind him, an impish grin of her own rising to her pale face.

“Ooh, someone’s jealous,” the archer-turned-mage teased.

“I’m not jealous of myself!” Severa snapped. “Fine! Go! You’d better go! I’m telling you to go! And you’d better bring me back a present!”

The other three time travelers laughed as Severa crossed her arms and pouted, looking away. Lucina had to wipe a tear from her eye she was laughing so hard, something she could say she had not done for quite some time. It was strange, too, seeing Noire bold enough to tease someone, especially someone as volatile as Severa. They were all growing up, Lucina realized. No, they already had grown up, she corrected herself. Gone were the awkward teenagers with no life experience outside of a battlefield that had travelled to the past, and the thought made Lucina melancholy once more. However, before she could dwell on these thoughts their laughter was interrupted by shouting from the Coliseum.

“There you guys are!”

The four time travelers looked up as another group exited the Coliseum, led by a frowning Morgan and Cynthia. Inigo, Brady, Yarne and Kjelle seemed to be caught up in their wake, almost unwillingly following the two other women.

“Come on, we hardly ever get to see each other anymore, we’re gonna go have lunch!” Morgan declared.

“Sis!” Cynthia cried, latching onto Lucina with a big hug. “You weren’t going to leave without seeing me for a little bit, right?”

“No, Cynthia,” Lucina soothed. “In fact, that sounds like a brilliant idea. Let’s all spend some time together.”

“Been a while since she bossed us around like this,” Brady grumbled, a grin on his scarred face.

“Just like old times,” Kjelle laughed.

“Well then, fearless leader,” Inigo said with a foppish bow. “Lead on!”

* * *

The people of Regna Ferox were known for one thing above all else; their love of training, and their love of fighting. Therefore, it made perfect sense that there were numerous training rings attached to the Khan’s quarters in the Coliseum. The Khan-Regnant’s private training grounds even overlooked the Arena itself, high above the bloodstained sands to remind them where their power came from. It was in one such training ground, inside the Khan’s quarters, that Arya found herself watching Mari and Galle spar. The Chon’sinian girl moved like water around his guard, their training weapons clacking against each other as she proved, without a shadow of a doubt, that she could fight just as well one-handed as with two. Galle hissed as her wooden sword smashed into his arm again, and he hopped backwards.

“Alright, you proved your point! Grima that hurt…” he moaned.

“Have I now?” Mari asked, circling her sword.

Arya grinned at their exchange, resisting the urge to giggle. Ever since news of their relationship got out in Saiqat Galle and Mari had stopped hiding it as much, and Mari’s icy exterior had even begun to thaw a little. Where before she was aloof and quiet, the perfect Chon’sinian soldier, now she was a cool, confident woman that Arya actually found herself idolizing a little. And Galle was… well, Galle was Galle. He hadn’t changed that much, it had just become far more apparent how whipped he was.

“Again,” Mari said, raising her sword one-handed.

“Do we have to?” Galle moaned as he moved into his own ready stance.

Arya smiled as she watched her friends sparring, toying with her own sheathed dagger in her hands. She’d followed them more for companionship than to actually train, knowing full well she was probably intruding on their time as a couple. She couldn’t help it, though; she just couldn’t stomach the thought of being alone right now.

“Oh! I-I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here…”

Arya and Galle both looked up as the pink-haired gypsy woman Olivia walked in holding a sheathed short-sword in her hands. Mari took the opportunity, though, her training sword arcing down and smacking Galle square on the top of the head.

“Wide open!” she shouted as the wooden weapon came down.

Galle yelped, retreating and holding his head as he cringed in pain. “That was a cheap shot!” he shouted indignantly.

“We are dueling and you became distracted,” Mari said, clearly trying not to laugh.

As the couple continued their training a thought occurred to Arya. With a deep breath she bounced to her feet from the crate she was sitting on and approached the older Shepherd. Lady Lucina was always telling her to keep an open mind about her fighting style, to watch and learn wherever she could…

“Um… Lady Olivia?” she asked timidly.

“Yes!” Olivia squeaked, clearly surprised.

“Would you… teach me some of your… your techniques? For sword-fighting?”

“M-my techniques?” the older woman asked, quirking her head. “I just… they were my… dancing moves that I… incorporated…”

“Oh…” Arya mumbled, looking down.

“I-I-I mean I can teach you, um, a few basic moves!” Olivia added quickly. “I’m sorry, it’s just that… no one’s ever asked me to… teach them how to do anything before… I’d be happy to teach you!”

Arya looked back up, smiling broadly as a deep red blush began to spread across Lady Olivia’s face. For the next hour Olivia taught her, beginning with flexibility exercises and warm-ups before moving into some basic movement flow. It was totally different to the rooted, steady style that Lady Lucina had taught her; where both styles emphasized flowing between the blows, Olivia’s was one of constant movement. It took Arya a little while to find the right rhythm, but once she started thinking of it as more of a dance than a fighting style she stopped tripping over her own feet as much. When she finally stopped to catch her breath she glanced up, surprised at the sound of clapping. Olivia, Galle, Mari and even Robin himself were watching, clapping with smiles on their face.

“That was really good!” Olivia said. “I think you’re a natural dancer!”

“S-sir Robin! When did… how long have…” Arya managed to stammer, her eyes going wide.

“A while,” Robin chuckled. “I didn’t want to interrupt anything. You were doing well, though. I might need to have Olivia teach me some moves.”

“No thank you,” Olivia said instantly. “Trying to teach you to dance for your wedding was hard enough, thank you.”

“That’s cold,” Robin sighed. “How’re you feeling, anyway? Should you be up and moving like that after Maris… you know… uh… skewered you?”

“Subtle,” Olivia laughed. “I’m fine. It feels better to move around. I was getting a little stiff. Libra might have gone a little overboard with the healing magic, though. I think I actually looked a little younger this morning.”

Robin scoffed, grinning. “That’s good. I was worried about you, you know. So worried I won’t even point out that that’s not how healing magic works.”

“Don’t spoil my dreams,” Olivia pouted.

Robin barked out a laugh, turning to his student and former students. “And how are you feeling, Mari?”  

“Care to find out, sir?” the one-armed girl asked, holding her training sword up suggestively.

Robin laughed again, holding up his hands non-threateningly. “No thanks, I just watched you beat the stuffing out of Galle, and I know how much you like him compared to me. I’ll take a pass.”

Mari nodded, frowning slightly. Clearly she had actually wanted to spar with her teacher.

“I just came to remind you all we’re moving out soon,” Robin continued. “Although it is good to see all that time I spent training you won’t be going to waste, Mari. I’m glad.”

Mari nodded, her face breaking into a rare, wide smile at her former teacher’s words. Galle frowned though, tapping his training sword against his shoulder.

“Did you ever actually work with us on our swordsmanship?” he asked seriously.

Robin came up short, freezing before grinning guiltily. “Er… yes? Maybe?”

“I don’t think you did,” Galle said, narrowing his eyes.

“I supervised, now are you lot going to get ready or not?” Robin huffed.

* * *

So it was that Robin once more found himself heading south to Ylisstol, this time swaying back and forth and watching the countryside crawl by as the wagon he was riding in meandered further towards the Ylissean capital after almost an hour of loud and tearful goodbyes.

Say’ri’s Chon’sin group had been first to depart, heading west to Port Ferox, where they had left their boat. Morgan had sniffled, valiantly trying not to bawl in front of the others as she’d clung to her father, the memory making Robin a little misty-eyed himself. He would have to make time to see her once their vacation was over, perhaps under the guise of a recruiting trip to Chon’sin. He and Say’ri had exchanged a warm handshake, not going so far as to hug, but it was good to see that they had finally reached an understanding. Virion and Cherche were somewhere in the other Ylissean carts, though, the Duke of Rosanne stating he wished to look into some trade contracts while they were here on the Eastern Continent. It made Robin smile to think he’d get to spend time with his old friend, the circumstances of the previous day making it impossible to so much as speak they had been so busy.

The Plegians had left next, to little fanfare. A few handshakes, Mustafa giving Robin a big bear-hug, and they were gone. The black carriages would travel along the west road, too, before heading south and passing directly into Plegia. Apparently it had taken quite some effort to get the Longfort gate they would be using open at first, Basilio joking he had to go himself and take a hammer to the massive gates to open them. But they were open now, and more and more trade was being conducted between the two nations, which Robin felt was another good sign.

Then it was their turn to leave, the Ylissean delegation’s wagons loading up quickly. The younger tacticians all said their goodbyes, Galle and Mari even sharing an intimate embrace in front of everyone, surprisingly enough. Owain had shown up, too, claiming ‘he was on a mission to keep Robin safe from the powers of darkness’. Robin had nodded before quickly passing the boy off to his Aunt and Uncle, a confused Owain being bundled into the royal caravan by an ecstatic younger Lucina. The time-travelling Lucina had bid farewell to both of her parents and her younger self, Chrom trying to hide the wetness of his own eyes by giving her a great bear-hug of his own before leaving his wife to say her own goodbyes. Sumia didn’t even try to hide it, crying as she held Lucina and made her promise to visit more. Of course, Sumia had always been a crier, though. The tactician had almost felt bad for the younger Lucina waiting in the carriage. Then Robin had stepped forward, and they had shared an embrace of their own, Lucina resting her head on his shoulder the way she always did.

“I’ll miss you,” Robin said softly.

“And I you,” Lucina sighed. “Behave yourself, okay? The smoother the talks go the faster you’ll be able to leave.”

“I know, dear,” Robin chuckled. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. I’ll see you soon,” Lucina replied, leaning back enough for them to share one final kiss before he left.

Then Robin was on the wagon, waving farewell to the rest of his team as they passed out into the forests outside of the Coliseum. That he was sharing his open-topped wagon with Galle, Arya and Gaius was no surprise. That Ita was sulking in the far corner, refusing to look at anyone was somewhat surprising; apparently she had hurt her leg when she and Kowrowa had tried to distract Maris, and Kowrowa was making her ride in the wagon. Even more surprising were the two Dark Mages sitting across from him, Tharja and her student Femi bundled up under their cloaks and looking miserable in the cold outside air.

“He couldn’t even organize a carriage? Typical,” Tharja muttered, glaring at Chrom’s carriage near the head of the convoy.

Femi simply sneezed, looking utterly miserable.

Van was riding with Frederick at the head of the convoy, his duties as the Knight’s Tactician already having begun. It made Robin a little sad to see one of his students leaving the nest again, but it filled him with more than enough pride to make up for it.

“What, couldn’t wait to get out of the cold?” Robin asked his old friend, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.  

“I actually need to speak to a colleague at the Mage’s Tower in Ylisstol,” Tharja replied.

“I’m sure that’s what it is,” Robin said with a smirk. “You know it’s a lot warmer in my fort than in the Coliseum, right?”

Tharja blinked a few times, subtly glancing back towards the Coliseum and letting out a sigh. Robin just laughed, shaking his head and leaning back. She always had hated the cold, even back when they had travelled north together after the first Plegian War.

“What are you grinning about,” Tharja snapped playfully. “Making fun of the miserable woman, are you?”

“Just thinking that if Virion were here it’d be just like old times,” Robin laughed.

“It would only be like old times if he were hitting on me constantly, and I don’t think his wife’s wyvern would approve.”

Robin burst out laughing, rocking back and forth in his seat as he wiped a tear from his eye.

The week that Chrom had set for travel time passed quickly in a haze of country scenery and boredom. Robin’s cart had played word games to the point they were getting so good at the Chon’sinian game ‘shiritori’, where you strung words together by matching the last letter of a word with the first letter of a new word, they had played it almost an entire day without a break. Owain had joined them eventually, his colorful and strange words making the game infinitely more interesting. Robin began to think he should have brought some books along with him, absently reading through his spellbook again. When Tharja saw him doing this she decided to hold an impromptu lecture and quiz, to which both Femi and Arya looked absolutely stricken. Robin was ashamed to admit that all three of the younger travelers scored better than him in the theory quiz, and Tharja had given him a knowing grin when she’d come to his scrap of paper. Amazingly, Owain had done very well taking the quiz, too, scoring almost the same as Robin, something that had depressed the tactician even more. Gaius spent the time either sleeping or whittling at a chunk of wood with one of his many daggers. He seemed antsy without Panne there, constantly glancing around as if he were expecting something to happen. Ita had started to grumble towards the end of the second day, and by the end of the third Robin had almost literally kicked her out of the cart. Now she split her time between running alongside the convoy in her wolf form with Kowrowa and sitting in the cart when the wound in her leg flared up again.

Fortunately Robin only had to suffer Idallia’s presence when the convoy broke for dinners. He and Tharja would eat with the Exalt, his Queen and the Khans while the others ate in their own little groups. Idallia usually ate silently, looking down at her food intently before excusing herself and going to bed. On the fourth day of this Basilio let out a deep sigh, running a hand over his bald head.

“Having second thoughts?” Robin asked, glaring at the tent Idallia had disappeared into.

“Boy, I’ve been having second thoughts about things since before you were born,” Basilio scoffed. “Regna Ferox, unfortunately, needs her. I didn’t like Flavia at first, either, but she grew on me.”

“I really don’t see that happening with her,” Robin muttered.

“Give it time,” Sumia suggested. “A lot has changed for her. She’ll need time to adjust.”

“Don’t defend her,” Robin scoffed. “What, her brother goes nuts during a plan to take over a neighboring country and all of a sudden she deserves our pity?”

“No,” Tharja growled without hesitation.

 “How is what we’re doing with her any different than what you did with Aversa?” Sumia asked pointedly. “We all agreed to look the other way, give her the benefit of the doubt. And we were right to do so. Can’t you give Idallia that same benefit of the doubt?”

Robin opened his mouth to respond, but realized he didn’t have anything to rebut with. “Alright, point. Aversa did treat me a lot worse at first, too…”

“Give her a chance,” Sumia repeated. “I’m sure she won’t be so bad once things settle down a little.”

“Alright,” Robin sighed. “Alright, I’ll give her a chance. But I’m closer to Eastern Ferox than anyone else, and I swear that if I even get a whiff of her being up to something I’ll come down on her like the wrath of the heavens.”

“That’s all we can ask,” Sumia said with a slight smile.

“Just because we all get along doesn’t mean that all the leaders do,” Chrom added. “Did you see the way that the Valmese representatives were glaring at us at the Coliseum?”

“I think that was because you got nicer rooms than them,” Basilio guffawed.

“I still don’t like her,” Tharja muttered.

“Yeah, but you don’t like anyone,” Robin chuckled.

“That’s not true,” Tharja said, frowning and looking away slightly. “I’m not… entirely against the company I presently find myself in.”

“Wow, really?” Chrom laughed. “All these years I thought you were just putting up with us.”

“Dear, be nice,” Sumia admonished. “This is serious growth for her!”

“I’ll drink to that,” Basilio shrugged, pulling a large flask out of his pack and taking a deep swig. “Who’s thirsty?”

“Ever consider that there might be a lot more Feroxi around if you all didn’t drink so much?” Robin suggested, accepting the flask and taking a swig himself. The harsh liquor burned a trail down his gullet, making him cough and splutter a little.

“It’s cold up north, boy,” Basilio guffawed. “Maybe you lot would complain less if you drank more!”

“I’ll drink to that,” Chrom laughed, taking the flask from Robin and drinking. “Gods, Basilio, what are you drinking? Pure grain alcohol?”

“Pretty close,” the Khan shrugged.

Sumia sighed, wordlessly snatching the flask from her husband and giving him a dirty look. Then, as soon as he looked away taking a small swig of her own. She was busted, though, when she burst into a coughing fit, handing the flask off to Basilio before she spilled it while Chrom laughed and patted her on the back. The Khan grinned as he held the flask out to Tharja, the Dark Mage blinking in surprise as she looked between him and the flask.

“To not being entirely against the company we find ourselves in,” Basilio offered with a grin.

Tharja hesitated, but broke into a small smile as she accepted the flask.

“I’ll drink to that,” she said, knocking back the strong alcohol with a contented sigh and barely even flinching at the harshness of the drink.

“Atta girl!” Basilio cheered, accepting the flask again when Tharja held it out.

“What are you drinking in that desert?” Sumia asked aghast.

“Is water really that hard to come by?” Robin laughed.

Tharja just rolled her eyes, slipping back into her perpetual frown. “I do have a life outside of all of you now. And it gets cold in the desert, too.”

They laughed, continuing to pass the flask around until it was empty and they had to raid the Ylissean supplies for a bottle of wine Chrom had packed ‘just in case’, continuing to laugh and converse well into the night. Of course the raid had woken Frederick and Cordelia, the Knight Commander sternly refusing to join them while his wife sat up with them as their chaperone. Then Virion and Cherche had gotten wind of the festivities, and everything became a blur when Virion pulled out his own bottle of drink. Robin didn’t even remember what it was. When he woke the next morning he was surprised to find Tharja curled up next to him, both of them nursing wretched hangovers as they climbed back into the wagon. It was little solace that all of the others, with the exception of Cordelia who had made sure they didn’t do anything too stupid while intoxicated, weren’t feeling much better. The day was cursedly long, the swaying of the wagon making Robin feel ill as every bump and jolt sent spikes of pain through his head. Tharja fared little better, groaning and glaring from beneath her hood at everyone that made so much as a sound around her.

The next day they passed far enough south to be considered in Ylisstol’s territory. Eventually they would be able to see the capital city on the horizon, Robin finding himself excited to see the spires and domes of the beautiful city once more. Even if he did still feel ill from the drinking the day before. Van joined them in the wagon that day, wanting to spend a little more time with his friends before life separated them. Owain had returned to the carriage with his family, too, citing a need to ‘ensure little Lucina’s education was going according to plan’.

“I’ve never been to Ylisstol before,” Arya said conversationally that afternoon.

“It’s beautiful,” Robin said. “I’ve never seen anything else like it. Valm City was close, but there’s just something about Ylisstol, the way the architecture just flows, that makes it stand out.”

“Plus there’s lots of bakeries and delis,” Van added. “Isaac dragged me to practically every one of them in the city.”

“Explains why he was so much bigger than us,” Galle muttered.

Robin chuckled along with the others, glad that his student’s memory was already bringing joy rather than sorrow. They were all very mature for their ages, though, even if they didn’t always act like it. Robin’s retort about how Galle could probably stand to eat a little more died on his tongue as he felt a wave of nausea, once again cursing how low his tolerance to hard drink had become over the last few years. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath, trying to keep his lunch down.

“Are you alright, sir?” Arya asked, picking up on her teacher’s distress.

“Yeah, just drank a little too much the other day,” he chuckled weakly. “I must be getting old.”

Tharja scoffed across from him, but remained silent. She looked as green as he felt, something Robin considered odd given the tolerance to alcohol she’d shown while they had been drinking. Before Robin could think more on this the wagon lurched to a halt, its occupants swaying with the motion and Tharja actually giving a groan as she held her head.

“What’s going on?” Van asked, standing to get a better look.

“Dunno,” Galle mumbled, standing next to the Ylissean boy. “Let’s go find out.”

The two of them jumped from the back of the wagon to the hard-packed dirt road, jogging towards the front of the convoy as Robin and Tharja both sagged. A pained retching sound made Robin glance up, his eyes widening as he realized that the younger Dark Mage, Femi, was vomiting over the side of the wagon.

“Gross,” Gaius moaned, moving to the other side of the wagon.

“S-sir, I don’t… feel so good…” Arya moaned, grabbing onto the sleeve of Robin’s coat and swaying a little.

Robin and Tharja both looked up at once, their eyes meeting as Galle came racing back along the convoy at a dead sprint. His next words made Robin’s blood run cold.

“Ylisstol is burning! The city is burning!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving the story on! Shock horror! The plot thickens! Who was worried the story was done? Did you think this was an epilogue chapter? YOU WERE WRONG! I said I’d be doing the Future of Despair DLC, and I meant it. I meant what I said and I said what I meant, metallover’s faithful one hundred percent.


	20. Chapter 20

Robin stood, his eyes wide and mouth slack, staring in awe as plumes of dark clouds rose from the beautiful buildings that made up Ylisstol’s inner city. A small crowd of the other Shepherds were at his back as they watched the smoke rise. Even from this distance he could see that the outer city was a mess of activity, chaos reigning as commoners and nobility alike fled the flames. With a sinking feeling Robin watched as familiar dark shapes leapt from building to building, roof to roof, pouncing on the fleeing civilians. More of the shapes emerged from alleys and even the shadows themselves, tearing into the panicked populace.

“Risen,” Virion spat from his side. “Of course it is the foulest of Risen.”

“Everywhere I go,” Robin finally managed to mutter, before sighing. “Why do these damn things keep hounding me!? Don’t answer that, stupid question.”

From his other side Tharja let out a tired sigh of her own, barely more than a breath from her nose, already holding her spellbook under one arm.

“This… this is…” Owain managed to mumble, at a loss. He rallied after a moment, shaking his head. “I was hoping I’d never have to see this city burning again.”

Robin nodded, clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He realized with a start, though, that Owain’s shoulder was actually higher than his own now. They future-Prince had grown up while he hadn’t been watching.

Chrom had practically had a fit, so great was his rage when he’d learned that his capital was under attack. It had only grown worse when he’d learned that the Risen were responsible. Sumia, Cherche Cynthia and Cordelia passed overhead, their flying mounts having departed to scout almost as soon as word had reached them that the city was aflame while Frederick and Chrom tried to organize the Shepherds, retainers and honor guard they had on hand; of course, being the Exalt meant that Chrom travelled with a small army at all times, not to mention the squads of Themisian soldiers Maribelle had brought, so they weren’t hurting for bodies, at the least. Gaius was already gone, infiltrating the chaos of the city and trying to track down Lissa and anyone else still in the capital. Leaving the rest of the Shepherds to wait and watch until things were ready.

“We just got finished tearing through a bunch of Risen,” Robin said, turning away from the city. “I almost feel bad for whoever summoned these things when Chrom gets at them. Almost.”

“I’d feel worse if I get at them first,” Tharja hissed, following him.

“Felt like the mages tower, right?” he asked her softly.

“I’d bet my life on it,” Tharja agreed.

Virion and Owain followed silently, the quartet returning to where the others were almost finished preparing now. As they walked Gaius appeared to simply materialize at Robin’s shoulder, the skinny thief covered in soot and out of breath.

“They have the palace,” he reported. “Near as I can tell Lissa’s put up a pretty nasty fight, but she and a group of non-coms are trapped there. Risen aren’t exactly unified, looked like they were more of a distraction than anything else.”

“Good work, take five,” Robin said, never breaking stride. “Sound like you’re a little out of shape, there. Maybe you’d better cut back on the sweets after all?”

“They’ll never find your body, Bubbles. Remember that,” Gaius warned playfully.

Robin smirked, shaking his head. Despite the incredible insult of attacking Ylisstol spirits were still mostly high. Chrom looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel, and Robin could practically hear Frederick’s teeth grinding from ten meters away, but everyone else showed the same calm readiness they always did. The Shepherds that were actually present joked and talked the way they always did before a mission, and the soldiers of Chrom’s escort appeared ready to storm the city at any moment, with or without the Exalt’s orders.

It was confidence inspiring to have so many veterans, and it actually brought a modicum of peace to Robin.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we have our targets,” he called out as he approached where Chrom and Frederick were organizing the troops.

“What do we do?” Basilio asked above the din when he spotted Robin, everyone growing silent almost instantly as they looked to Robin for a plan.

“We have two objectives,” the tactician said without preamble. “Retake the palace, and stop more Risen from being summoned. Unfortunately, whoever’s doing this didn’t get the memo about how this is usually done, and those two objectives are some distance apart.”

A few chuckles and weak laughs met his small joke, and Robin grinned as he went on.

“Near as we can tell, whatever’s causing the Risen to appear is in the Mage’s Tower. We’ll split into two teams, hit them both at once. Shouldn’t take long. I need a small team to join me in taking the tower back. Uh… Sully, Vaike, Tharja, Gaius, Owain and… Olivia. Cherche, Cordelia, I want you flying recon from the outside for us; there’s plenty of terraces and open balconies they could ambush us on. And Maribelle as our support. That should be more than enough. The rest of you, take the palace. Chrom, a moment.”

Everyone sprang into action now that they had their orders, the usually stoic Frederick practically shouting as he began to outline the attack plan for the Palace. Chrom came stomping over to Robin, resplendent in his full battle plate. The majesty was ruined, though, by the intense frown on the Exalt’s face, his knuckles white on Falchion’s hilt.

“Yes?” he said shortly.

“Chrom I want you with me on the Tower,” Robin said simply.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Whatever’s causing this is at the tower. I don’t know what it is, but if it’s like Maris… I may not be able to handle it alone.”

“You’re not alone, you’ve got a team of the Shepherds-”

“You and I,” Robin cut him off softly, “are the only ones capable of putting down this threat. Nobody else has been Awakened. If something happens to me and whatever it is causing this gets away it’ll be a lot more than just Ylisstol burning. This is bigger than one city, Chrom. I need you on this.”

“Dammit Robin, this is my home,” Chrom seethed.

“And this is also your country,” Robin countered. “You have an obligation to all the cities and towns, not just Ylisstol. We need to contain this.”

The Exalt ground his teeth, snarling wordlessly before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “I know. I hate it when you’re right.”

“You’d think you’d be used to it by now,” Robin said with a smirk.

“I’ll tell Frederick,” Chrom said with a sigh. “He won’t be happy, but someone needs to retake the palace.”

“Sumia’s going with him,” Robin shrugged. “I’m sure that’ll make him a little happier.”

“Or as happy as Frederick ever gets,” Chrom scoffed. “I don’t even remember him smiling at his own wedding.”

“Ouch,” Robin chuckled. “Not surprising, though. Go on, then. I’ve got work to do.”

Chrom nodded, his expression a little softer as he strode towards the Ylissean soldiers all knotted around Frederick and Sumia. The tactician turned, coming face to face with the four others he’d left off the list. Galle, Arya, Kowrowa and Ita stood, waiting to see who spoke first.

“I notice,” Galle drawled. “That you left us out of your attack on the Mage’s Tower.”

“No I didn’t,” Robin smirked. “Like I could get rid of you lot if I tried.”

“Where you go, we go,” Kowrowa rumbled.

Ita heaved a great sigh through her nose, shaking her head and turning away. Her long, messy hair swayed with the movement, the clacking of the beads and fetishes braided through it startlingly loud in the pre-mission lull.

“Arya, are you up for this?” Robin asked solemnly, turning to his apprentice. “You can stay out here with the Princess if you’d like. Hell, I want you to stay with the princess. But it’s your call.”

Arya jumped a little, clasping her hands in front of her and fiddling with her fingers nervously for a moment before taking a deep breath and forcing them back down. When she looked up at Robin there was a determination, a fire in her eyes.

“I can’t be afraid forever,” she said. “And I’m your apprentice, right? I’ve… I’ve got your back!”

“Well said, little one,” Kowrowa chuckled, his big toothy smile splitting his thick beard as he clapped a hand on Arya’s shoulder.

Galle nodded approvingly, grinning a little himself, and Ita just huffed again, crossing her arms.

“Good,” Robin said with a nod, before reaching back and tying his hair out of his face, displaying the ugly burn scar on his forehead. “Get your kit together. As of now, and I honestly hoped I’d never have to say this, Ylisstol is enemy territory.”

* * *

Virion sent a rain of arrows one after another at a knot of Risen congregating in a small marketplace, the upscale shops and stalls of Ylisstol’s inner wards reduced to so much shattered glass and shards of wood by the rampaging creatures. Unlike the ones that Maris had summoned in Regna Ferox, these creatures had that spark of malign intelligence that made them dangerous. He had personally already taken down three Chieftains on his own, a new personal best.

With a sigh Virion lowered his bow, the soldiers with him charging forwards behind Frederick, the quarters becoming too tight for him to chance taking any shots unless he had to.

“Restock!” Virion called out over his shoulder.

One of the soldiers, a young man whose House Ylisse tabard hung off him like a backwards cape, ran forward, exchanging Virion’s almost exhausted quiver with a new one that he slotted into the hoop hanging from his belt. If nothing else at least fighting as part of a unit was always more convenient for archers.

Around him several other archers from the Honor Guard milled about, resupplying and watching attentively to cover the soldiers in the marketplace. With barely a change in his expression Virion brought his bow up and loosed an arrow, his hands a blur. The bolt flew through the crowd, burying itself in the shoulder of a Risen that had snuck up behind one of the Ylissean soldiers. The young man spun, impaling the creature without ever knowing who had saved him, but such was a sniper’s lot in battle.

Virion gave a tired sigh again as he lowered his bow. “Truly I must be getting old. I was aiming for the creature’s head.”

Behind him a woman giggled a little, and Virion turned to see Queen Sumia approaching. The younger woman had lost none of her beauty or charm, and Virion couldn’t help but smirk as he recalled all the times he had flirted with the maiden Pegasus Knight during their first campaign in Plegia, discussing poetry and love. Of course it had all amounted to nothing; even then she had had her heart firmly set on the then-Prince, Chrom. Such pure love made Virion smirk even more when he thought of it. It truly was the rarest of rarities.

“There are still very few archers capable of making that shot,” Sumia said encouragingly. “I know for a fact many of my own guard would have struggled with it.”

“I resent that, your majesty!” one of the nearby archers laughed.

“Just watch, we’ll do you proud, my lady!” another added.

Sumia smiled fondly as the small squad of archers moved into a better position, one pair even going so far as to climb up onto the low roof of one of the nearby buildings to find better range. The Queen had left her pegasus Palla with the rearguard, choosing to lead the assault to retake the palace on foot. While it would have made more sense to have her flying reconnaissance with her time-travelling daughter Cynthia Virion agreed with Robin that it would have been too dangerous. They didn’t know how many Risen were in the city, or where they were capable of bringing to bear; the Shepherds were using brute-force lightning tactics that Robin had come up with during the Valm campaign, relying of mobility and versatility. Unfortunately a horse or a pegasus couldn’t jump many of the low walls or pass through the tightly packed buildings of the Inner Wards. Instead Sumia was wearing slightly heavier armor than she usually did, polished bronze greaves to match her breastplate and gauntlets and a leather kilt replacing her usual riding gear. She still carried her favored lance, but also had a thin and elegant rapier, similar to the one Robin used, strapped to her hip. Her husband and daughters’ influence, no doubt.

“Your words honor me, good queen,” Virion said with an over-exaggerated bow.

“Oh none of that,” Sumia chided. “We’ve known each other for long enough, Virion.”

The archer smirked, rising and resting his bow against one shoulder as he offered the young queen a wink. “Be that as it may, in the presence of such nobility even I, the archest of archers, find it difficult to maintain my decorum. But for you I shall try.”

“Clear!” Frederick’s booming voice called from the market.

Sumia and Virion advanced as part of the rearguard, the other archers and the mages accompanying them moving into the square now, too. The majority of the Shepherds not on Robin’s team were off on the main road through the Inner Wards, making as much noise and causing as much of a distraction as they could; a task Cynthia seemed a little too enthusiastic to be in charge of, in Virion’s opinion. Robin’s plan had been elegantly simple, but then it never was hard to fool the Risen; Sumia, Virion, Frederick and Lon’qu would take two squads of Honor Guard and pass through the winding back roads to the palace while Cynthia and the others acted the distraction with the remaining three squads of Honor Guard. The plan was to catch the Risen between them and meet at the palace steps before storming the building to rescue Lissa, the children and anyone else they could find.

Tension was high, though. Lon’qu, clearly worried about his wife Lissa and their infant child, had a firm set to his features, his mouth drawn into a thin line as his eyes hunted for more foes to dispatch. Sumia, too, had her usually gentle features drawn into a frown, the knowledge that her sister-in-law and youngest daughter were in danger clearly weighing heavily on the woman. Frederick… Frederick had been a force of nature, a battering ram in the shape of a man. It was as if the Knight Commander took this invasion as a personal insult. It most likely didn’t help that the man’s own daughter was no doubt with Princess Lissa, too.

“We aren’t far from the palace now,” Sumia declared, her voice strong and certain. “Take heart, men! Soon this nightmare will be over!”

A resounding cheer went up from the Honor Guard, Virion not bothering to hide the smirk on his own face. It truly was a joyous thing, watching a young woman grow into the role that the Gods had chosen for her. Or perhaps he was smirking because he had heard her husband use the same line at least a dozen times he could count. It didn’t really matter, though.

As the soldiers began to pour into the narrow back-streets again, struggling to keep up with Frederick as the man charged ahead, Virion cast his gaze at the Mage’s Tower, visible in the sky even from this distance. The great edifice was built into the wall that separated the Inner and Outer Wards, almost as far away from the palace as it was possible to get without actually being in the Outer Wards.

“Virion!” Lon’qu called.

The Duke of Rosanne glanced back, realizing that the Feroxi swordsman and the Queen were waiting for him.

“I’m coming,” he called. “Alas, I find the skyline marred by the smoke.”

“We’ll fix that after we get rid of the Risen,” Sumia chuckled as he came alongside her, before adding in a much softer tone, “I’m worried about them too.”

Virion gave her an appreciative nod as they began to follow the others. Not much could escape the eyes of the Queen, it seemed.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Virion scoffed. “Really, after all we’ve done? I do not think there’s anything in this world that could ruffle the feathers of our most Exalted of Exalts and Tactical of Tacticians.”

* * *

Robin let out a high-pitched scream as he dove through the air, rolling into cover as several large fireballs incinerated the ground that he had just been standing on.

“What the hell are these things made out of!?” he shouted to no one in particular, pressing his back up against the ruined wall of one of the buildings at the base of the Mage’s Tower, a note of panic in his usually clear voice.

Galle, already waiting in the cover of the ruined building, shot his former teacher a withering glare.

“A small team will be enough, that’s all we’ll need, it won’t take long!” the younger man said sarcastically, flipping desperately through his spellbook. “Remind me why we listen to you again!?”

“Where’s Arya!?” Robin shouted over the explosions of more spells.

“Back with Olivia where the buildings are still intact!” Galle shouted back, putting extra emphasis on the last word.

With a grunt Tharja tumbled into the same cover as them, shedding her burning cloak as she did so. The Dark Mage had a fierce snarl on her face as she rose up, gesturing upwards with one cupped hand and sending blasts of dark purple flames into the sky. Finally the torrent of magical flames abated long enough for Chrom to shout “Forward!”, leading the charge to the base of the tower himself. Of course, he and Vaike were the only ones that actually charged.

“Are they insane?” Robin muttered under his breath, leaning out to cover the two idiots with a few more bolts of magical lighting.

“I liked that cloak,” Tharja growled, watching her robes smolder before her.

“I’d offer you mine, but we’ve all seen what happens when I take off my coat,” Robin grinned, earning a second withering glare.

Magic-wielding Risen were nothing new to the Shepherds; most had been weak, barely capable of casting a simple spell let alone complex ones. Then there had been the Deadlord mages, creatures that even Tharja, arguably the Shepherds’ most accomplished combat mage after Robin, had struggled with. The Risen currently barring their path to the Mages Tower were somewhere in between.

For good measure Robin leaned out of cover himself, tossing a few arcs of magical lighting at the remaining Risen.

“I can’t believe I miss Virion!” Tharja hissed, ducking back down as several arrows clattered off the broken brickwork.

Galle rose up this time, and with a sweep of his hands sent a blast of magical green wind into the air, knocking all of the arrows off their trajectories. Ita and Kowrowa saw this, both howling and charging towards the Risen archers firing at them from the left flank.

“I’m sure he’d be tickled pink to hear that from you,” Robin laughed. “He always thought you hated him!”

“I do!” Tharja snapped.

“Less talking, more magic!” Galle shouted as more spells fell into the ruins around them.

Robin rolled his eyes, rising up and firing three powerful Thoron spells at the Risen. The air itself seemed to quake with the spells’ passing, Galle groaning and covering his ears as even Tharja flinched.

They had come into the small square that sat at the foot of the Mages Tower to find a perfect killing-field; the infantry couldn’t get past the mages, the fliers couldn’t get past the archers, and the mages couldn’t get past the infantry. Many of the shops and houses near the Tower, a massive stone edifice rising nearly a kilometer into the sky, sat at the end of the square, surrounded by Risen. It wasn’t until Chrom and Vaike had come up with the fool-hardy idea that they would distract the infantry, braving the magical fire of the Risen mages, long enough for Robin, Tharja and Galle to get into position. Without the tactician’s consent, too. It had worked, though, and now they were finally making progress. Every time Chrom screamed ‘forward’ he and Vaike drove a little deeper into the Risen, earning them more and more respite. As Kowrowa and Ita finished reducing the archers to ash Cordelia and Cherche swooped in, descending upon the mage Risen closer to the tower that Robin’s display of magical superiority hadn’t killed outright. Leaving Chrom to lead the infantry charge against the rest of the conventional Risen.

With a sigh Robin turned his back to the ruins, sliding down them into a sitting position.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he groaned.

Tharja rolled her eyes, dropping a waterskin and a stimulant potion into his lap. “Drink that. It will help.”

Robin frowned, doing as he was told. He hated the stimulants, but they were necessary. He and Tharja hadn’t admitted it, but they were both feeling the side effects of the dark magic blanketing the city a little more than the others. Galle and Arya were uncomfortable, and Femi was a little queasy, but the two experienced spellcasters were having trouble focusing, and Robin could barely stay on his feet. A part of him knew that if he just opened himself to the corrupt mana, the way he had back on Origin Peak to fight Grima, even just a little as he had in Regna Ferox a week ago, he could end this almost immediately. But every time he did shaved years off his life. The cracks behind his ear had spread, covering nearly half of the back of his head now. He hadn’t told Lucina yet. He knew Tharja knew, though, and then only because she was the most powerful Dark Mage left in existence. The tainted Dark Magic Grima had wielded was like a drug, one that had left its mark on Robin, corroding his spirit and soul. Simply put, he knew his soul itself was just as scarred as his body; the spirit couldn’t support the powerful dark magic any more, not after everything he had been forced to endure. Not the self-destructive Grimleal Dark Magic. Not after dying twice. Just closing himself off from it was sapping his energy and strength, leaving him almost painfully exhausted.

In a moment of stark realization Robin realized that denying Grima’s legacy all these years, since as early as the start of the Valm campaign, was slowly killing him.

And as much as he wanted to end the threat to Ylisstol, he did also want to live long enough to see his daughter grow up.

“Better?” Tharja asked as Robin brought the waterskin to his lips in an attempt to wash the foul taste of the stimulant from his mouth.

“Yeah, much,” he nodded, rising slowly and making a face. “Yeesh, and I thought vullenaries tasted bad. You never did tell me what was in these things.”

“You still don’t want to know,” Tharja rolled her eyes, taking the waterskin back.

Galle shot his former teacher a curious look, though, but held his questions as the rearguard joined them. Olivia, Gaius, Maribelle, Arya and Femi came into the rubble that the three were hiding in. Arya looked a little pale, her knuckles white as she gripped her dagger. Her eyes darted around, though, taking in the scene quickly as Robin stepped up to her.

“And that,” he sighed. “Is a perfect example of a killing field. Not how I wanted to show you one, but whatever works. Take note. And… don’t try and outmaneuver it the way we did. I don’t think anyone else can match the combined luck of those two oafs.”

Arya nodded, a small grin breaking out on her face at her teacher’s glib tone.

“I heard that!” Chrom called from across the square.

The Exalt’s mood had abated somewhat, getting better the more fighting they had encountered. Robin guessed that the bigger man simply felt better about actually doing something to save his home, rather than waiting for reports to come in.

“Good! Stop doing stupid stuff unless I tell you to!” Robin called back.

“Teach knows you know you loved the show!” Vaike called back, perching atop a pile of rubble and proceeding to flex his muscles for them.

“That doesn’t make sense, Vaike!” Robin laughed.

“Doesn’t have to it was still awesome!” Vaike shouted back.

“These are the men that saved the world?” Femi asked quietly, her voice somewhat disappointed.

“I know,” Tharja agreed with a sigh.

“I do wish they were a little more mature about it,” Maribelle added.

Robin turned with a grin, reaching into his seemingly bottomless pouch and producing the tattered brown canvas cloak he wore over his coat in the colder climates up north, holding the garment up to Tharja.

“Isn’t that why you guys love us? Here. Figured you’d feel naked without a top layer,” he said with a grin.

Tharja sighed out her nose, accepting the cloak and slipping it on without an ounce of hesitation over her tight travelling clothes as Maribelle groaned and rolled her eyes. Robin couldn’t help but grin at the thought that, if he had done this when they had first met she would probably have fainted from happiness. Judging from the way he could tell she was desperately trying to suppress a smile the Dark Mage was still clearly very pleased.

“Hey!” Sully called out from the foot of the tower. “You… uh, you magey types wanna come take a look at this?”

Robin and Tharja exchanged a glance, the tactician shrugging before they began to pick their way through the rubble to where the Knight was standing.

Out of all of the Shepherds Sully was one of them that had changed the least. Her hair was still shorn short, she still wore the same old battered red armor, and her muscles still put Robin to shame. However a new expression was on her face as he approached, Chrom and the others following closely behind. The veteran knight was unsettled.

A chorus of confused muttering broke out as they came upon the body of one of the Risen mages that had been plaguing them, not yet turned to ash and lying face down.

“So is it… not dead?” Vaike asked, nudging the corpse with his boot.

Sully shrugged, flipping her lance and driving it down into the creature’s back. It didn’t so much as stir. “Second time I’ve done that now.”

Robin glanced around, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he realized that none of the Risen mages had turned to ash like the rest, many lying in pieces after being hit by his spells. With a feeling of great trepidation he knelt down, turning the body up. A young face, quite dead, glared up at the sky. Its flesh was grey, shot through with black and red veins. Just like…

“It looks like Maris,” Chrom commented. “But… that would mean…”

“That it was once weak and human, yes.”

Everyone glanced up, weapons coming up instinctually as a hunched form shuffled out from within the darkness of the Tower. As it came into the light Robin instantly gagged, the fell energy exuding from the newcomer almost overwhelming him.

“You,” Tharja commented, stepping forward. “I know you. Professor Clarus. What happened here? Speak, fool!”

“Do not presume to speak to me so, witch,” the hooded man snapped. “You come to my home, kill my students-”

“These were students!?” Chrom thundered, stomping forward a few steps before Robin grabbed him.

“They still are!” Clarus shouted right back, his reedy voice carrying a hint of something sinister beneath it. “My beloved students. And you… you’re murdering them!”

“Clarus, what have you done?” Robin asked, stepping around Chrom.

“What have you done!?” the mage snapped in return, rounding on the tactician.

Robin flinched away, watching as the flesh beneath the mage’s chin, the only visible part of his face, writhed as if something beneath was trying to get out.

“Professor Clarus, you were a good, honest man-” Chrom tried, before the possessed mage cut him off.

“Spare me, your Exaltedness. Before today you didn’t even know who I was. No one did. I will bring change to this city, and then this world, and none will ever know that it was I that gave humanity the last little push to something… greater.”

“Not if I have something to say about it, craven,” Owain growled, a look on his face that Robin had never seen on him before. For the first time the young man looked like a Prince. “How dare you… how dare you attack this peaceful city thus!? I came all this way to save this world, and you do this!? I, Owain Dark, will not have it!”

A wave of unfocused mana erupted from Owain, kicking up a cloud of dust as he charged. Only to run face-first into the doors of the tower as Clarus waved his hand, closing them in his face with a quick spell.

Robin tried and failed to hide his smirk, a few of the others doing the same as Owain turned with a furious blush on his cheeks.

“Thank Naga Severa wasn’t here to see that,” the blonde man sighed.

“When did you learn magic?” Robin asked, still grinning.

“Er… a little here, a little there,” Owain excused lamely, rubbing the back of his head. “It does kind of run in my family.”

“Are you a mage, too!?” Robin asked, spinning to Chrom.

“Of course not! And I like your spirit, Owain,” Chrom chuckled, clapping a hand on his time-travelling nephew’s shoulder, “but we do this as we always have. As a team. Ricken’s in there somewhere, and maybe even Nowi and Nah. We need to rescue them, as well as the students and other faculty. Robin?”

“Standard formation,” the tactician shrugged, making a show of rolling up his coat’s sleeves. “Heavies in the front, lighter infantry behind and mages in the rear. Rotate out if you take a hit, let Maribelle treat you. Cordelia, Cherche, time to start flying and supporting us on the terraces. Everyone else, stand back. This is going to be loud, and I’m gonna enjoy it.”

“Please don’t destroy any more of my city,” Chrom sighed.

“Aw, you’re no fun,” Robin sighed.

The banter was muted, though; neither man’s heart was in it after learning about the students in the tower. It was unspoken that they all hoped that not all of the students had been turned into monsters. They had all fought together long enough to know that this was how they all felt.

* * *

From above the group of Shepherds on the main street of Ylisstol’s Inner Ward Cynthia let out a whooping cry, her pegasus, the future version of Palla that had come back in time with her, diving down at speeds that for anyone else would be near suicidal before barreling through a particularly dense knot of Risen and darting back to the sky again.

Basilio watched the young Deputy Wing-Commander’s antics, grinning and thinking to himself that he should have put more effort into finding a gryphon in the frozen north when he was a younger man.

“You’ve got that old-man smile going on again,” Van, one of Robin’s kids, laughed from his side.

“I think it suits him,” the quiet priest Libra added from behind.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Basilio guffawed. “Out of the three of us who’s got the higher kill-count?”

“Kinda hard to tell when they keep turning to ash,” Van commented. “How did you guys keep count during the war?”

“We guessed,” Libra said with a grin.

The unlikely trio, a Feroxi Khan, a Ylissean war-priest from an order that was supposed to be extinct, and a newly-minted tactician, all lapsed into silence as one of the Ylissean Captains started barking orders at the Honor Guard units at the front of their formation, verbally whipping the men into formation before driving them further into the Risen.

“At this rate we’ll be at the Palace before we even need to catch them between us,” Van smirked, bouncing his odd sword-staff on his shoulder as they began walking.

Basilio scoffed, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the last member of their little party was still there. Idallia glared up at him, her face pale and her long perfect hair pulled away from her face in a functional ponytail. After the fracas at the Coliseum she had taken the time to get her old armor from her quarters, the clean Ylissean plates clearly speaking of the support role she’d played behind the safety of their lines during the campaign in Valm. Basilio couldn’t help but think it was about time that the armor got some dirt and dings on it.

The old Khan let out a breath as he jogged to keep up with the two younger men, Idallia following close behind him. He’d never admit it, but he was starting to tire. And why not? He was at least thirty years older than some of the kids around him right now. Despite what he’d said to Robin in Regna Ferox, Basilio wasn’t at the top of his game anymore, and he hated to admit that he hadn’t been for a long time. He was old. His joints ached. His muscles burned. Phantom pain flared from his empty eye socket. But still he kept up. Still he matched every one of their Risen kills with two of his own. He was Khan Regnant of Regna Ferox. Anything less from him would be an insult to his people and their proud warrior heritage.

He could almost hear Flavia laughing at him in the afterlife, and the thought brought a grin to his face. _“Stupid old man. You just have to show that you can keep up with the kids, don’t you?”_

Their little group caught up with the rest of the Shepherds under Cynthia’s command, the Deputy Wing-Commander watching the Honor Guard fight their way through the Risen with a manic grin on her face from the back of her mount. From everything Basilio had heard her older sister had constantly been the leader in the future; no doubt the girl was excited now she had the chance to show off. A small amount of the other Shepherds were already waiting, and they all began to advance once Basilio’s group joined them.

“Looking a little winded there, old man,” Inigo teased, his handsome face split by a grin. “Maybe you’d best stay behind the younger warriors, huh?”

“Even on your best day you couldn’t match me,” Basilio grunted. “Don’t make me put you over my knee, little boy.”

“I’d be careful, he might enjoy that,” Kjelle laughed, earning a round of laughter from those present.

“Only if he were twenty years younger and a cute girl,” Inigo added, to more laughter.

“Come on guys, almost there!” Cynthia urged. “Kjelle, Inigo, move up and support the Honor Guard! Libra, tend the wounded! Everyone else, get in there!”

A chorus of acknowledgements rang out, leaving Basilio and Idallia alone at the back of the formation. The older Khan grinned down at his younger counterpart, to which she sighed.

“I suppose it would be useless to suggest we follow at the rear?” she asked irritably.

“You’re a Khan now, time to learn what that means,” Basilio laughed.

He set off at a jog again, grinning madly as he pushed through the Ylisseans in his path. Idallia sighed, setting her face in a firm scowl before running to keep pace with the older man; Basilio knew that she hated that he was the only thing keeping her head attached to her neck, especially when she had to work so hard to keep him alive. But Idallia was a Khan of Regna Ferox now, too, and the people of the northern forests were a warrior race. She needed to exemplify that mindset as one of their leaders. In short, she had to fight.

Basilio burst through the Ylissean troops, laughing manically as he descended on the Risen in his path like a force of nature. Every swing of his axe was met with more clouds of purple-grey ashes, the younger soldiers and warriors struggling to keep up with him on his rampage. Idallia fought smarter, though, leapfrogging with the Shepherd units and utilizing her delicate rapier to great effect, taking advantage of any openings given to her. She killed far fewer of the creatures than even the most inexperienced members of the Honor Guard squads, but Basilio reasoned that at least it was a start.

Before much longer they came upon the palace, coming to a stop at the gates as Sumia and Virion’s group came charging out of a back street, Frederick at their head.

“Ha! We win!” Cynthia cried triumphantly, striking a pose in her saddle as she brought her pegasus to earth between the groups.

“It wasn’t a race, Cynthia,” Sumia scolded gently.

“If it was we would’ve won,” she giggled, dismounting.

Sumia gave her time traveler daughter a weak glare but remained silent, letting out a small relieved sigh as the rest of the Shepherds and Honor Guard began to crowd around at the gates to the palace. Basilio slowed, though, hanging back and glancing over his shoulder at the direction of the Mages’ Tower. Something felt… off. He had no doubt that between Chrom and Robin they could handle anything up to and including another Grima, but still something nagged at the back of his mind. And he hadn’t lived so long without listening to his instincts.

“What are you doing?” Idallia snapped, out of breath from the fighting.

“Something’s bugging me,” the old Khan muttered, his voice like distant thunder on the horizon.

“What should be bugging you is that they’re over there deciding on the battle strategy to retake the Palace without us,” Idallia said, straightening and taking a few deep, calming breaths.

“Girl, you don’t get to be a Khan at my age without trusting your instincts and your gut,” Basilio said absently, turning away. He’d made his decision.

He stomped quickly through the assembled soldiers, Idallia letting out another long sigh as she hurried to keep up with him, both of them coming to a stop before the Shepherds.

“Sumia! Can you take the Palace without us?” he asked indicating the small woman beside him.

“I… yes?” she said, quickly shooting Frederick a glance to confirm her answer.

“I got a feeling in my gut,” Basilio explained. “The girl and I are gonna go help Robin.”

“What, your old bum knee aching, too?” Cynthia teased with a grin.

“About as much as your head’ll ache once I smack you upside it, girl,” Basilio snorted. “Think that flying mule can carry us all to the Tower?”

Cynthia blinked, glancing at Palla and back a few times before nodding. “You’re really serious?”

“Got an ache in my bum knee,” the Khan said with a wink. “Always means trouble. They probably won’t need us, but you definitely won’t.”

“Then go,” Sumia said with a nod. “We’ll send reinforcements as soon as we can.”

“Don’t bother,” Basilio snickered, turning to Idallia. “With us going this’ll be done before dinner. C’mon, girl. Keep up and pay attention. We’re going to go do something stupid, just like a good Feroxi would.”

* * *

The interior of the Mages’ Tower was a mess of senseless violence and destruction, blood and ash coating everything. The once rich carpets of its audience hall had been burned away to the bare stone beneath, a sticky layer of blood cooked by the flames coating much of the floor and walls. However most disturbing was the fact that the hall had been totally devoid of bodies.

As the Shepherds, Chrom leading with a quick and heavy pace, picked their way carefully up the circular staircase that ran around the outside of the tower Robin, Tharja, Femi and Galle occasionally cast spells into open doorways full of Risen, their pace barely slowing. Their speed finally slackened as the group came to the first of the many open terraces around the outside of the tower on the fifth floor, spaces that had been used to conduct practical spell casting. Central to the tower were a series of classrooms facing the open-air terrace, classrooms that would usually be full of students at this time of day.

“There were close to seven hundred people in this tower, right?” Robin asked softly as they came into the sunlight.

“Yes,” Tharja answered.

“Then where are they all?” Galle asked in his master’s place.

“Do we really want to know?” Femi asked, a small waver in her voice.

“Ricken was here,” Chrom said, his tone hopeful. “He wouldn’t have just let these things take over. He’s got to be holed up somewhere-”

“Beware!” Kowrowa warned, cutting Chrom off as his deep voice echoed around them.

Just as the word left his mouth a horde of Risen came tumbling down the stairs from above, more breaking down doors and windows of the interior classroom areas of the open floor to attack the Shepherds on the terrace. With a sinking feeling Robin spotted a number of the Risen-mages amongst the horde that had come in from the classrooms.

“Chrom, take the stairs!” Robin shouted. “Everyone else go with him! Kowrowa, Ita, Femi, back me up!”

The Dark Mage nodded, hurrying after Chrom and the other Shepherds following the Exalt. Arya gave a little squeak, shuffling back away from the charging Risen, but Robin slowed their advance with a lazy wind spell. Kowrowa and Ita followed the spell snarling and snapping in their wolf forms as they crashed into the horde of Risen. Femi hesitated for a moment, her face going pale as she struggled to decide how to approach the battle, but settled for casting small flux spells at the Risen on the periphery of the horde. The Dark Magic proved devastatingly effective against the creatures, her small spells dropping the Risen and emboldening the young mage apprentice.

Robin rolled out his neck, grinning as he loosened his sword in its sheathe and stepped towards the creatures, Arya hesitantly following with her dagger already in her hand. Still grinning Robin drew one of the daggers off the small of his back, tossing the weapon underhanded to the girl. She caught it, balancing the heavy knife that had once been Robin’s first sword in one hand as her teacher began to charge at the Risen. With a weapon in each hand now Arya followed, doing her best to quell the terror she felt in the face of the Risen.

When the older tactician hit the faltering Risen horde he did so with more destructive force than the two shape shifters had, Risen flying away from his magically infused strikes as lightning flashed with each blow. Robin had been experimenting ever since he’d heard about what Galle had done with his tattoos, and had been practicing channeling weak lightning spells he knew by heart through his beautiful sword. The effect, against the weaker Risen at least, was incredible. The monsters fell three at a time with each swing, each flash of magic knocking more either into the path of Femi’s spells or the two shape-shifters jaws. Arya, for her part, did her best to keep pace with her teacher, spinning and weaving the way that Olivia had taught her to, using her slight frame and natural agility to strike at the Risen that Robin missed and slowly gaining more confidence as she went. Of course, Robin was purposely letting some of the weaker creatures get past him so that Arya could gain a little more experience, but he’d never let her know that.

Almost two hundred Risen spewed from the classrooms, Robin and Kowrowa accounting for the majority of them. With a deep breath Robin watched as Ita tore into one of the last of the Risen from the side, the massive wolf shaking her head and giving a few sneezes as she got too close to the ashes. The two younger girls, Arya and Femi, both sagged now that the fighting was done, looking expectantly at the staircase to the next floor. At some point the sound of heavy wing-beats had joined the clamor near the stairs as Chrom and the others fought to push through to the next floor.

“Should we… go help them?” Arya asked.

Before Robin could answer Vaike let out a booming laugh, leaping from the back of Cherche’s wyvern Minerva and hitting the crowd of Risen still on the stairs like a meteor. How the axeman had managed to convince Cherche to let him do that…

“I think they’ve got it under control,” Robin shrugged. “Take five, drink some water, catch your breath. Ita, Kow! Any injuries?”

“These creatures are barely worth our time,” the bigger of the two wolves spat, disgust radiating off him.

Ita sneezed again, growling as she pawed at her muzzle. “It’s in my nose! I got one of them in my nose!”

“Yeah, they do that,” Robin snickered.

The tactician watched as Ita tried to cough up the ashes she’d inhaled. One thing that the Shepherds had all learned fast was that you should hold your breath the moment that a Risen dissipated. The ashes smelt foul enough without inhaling them.

Three more of the Risen-students were lying among the ashes, Robin was sad to admit. He’d hoped to be able to save as many of the students as possible, but it was always hard to recue someone trying to kill you. Besides, he knew better than anyone that it was impossible to undo a Risen transformation; that was one of the biggest reasons he refused to use Grima’s power, because as irrational as it was he was still afraid of becoming one of them.

Near the stairs Gaius let out a loud yelp as the Risen forced him into the railing of the terrace, the master thief quickly positioning himself away from the long drop back to ground level. Robin shook his maudlin thoughts from his head, focusing again on the task at hand.

“Come on, let’s go save Gaius,” he sighed, bouncing his sword on his shoulder ‘Van-style’ as he began to walk towards the melee.

With a few muttered words and a wave of her hand Emi sent five bolts of dark magic exploding against the Risen chasing Gaius, the thief sighing in relief before moving back to the rear of the Shepherds’ formation.

“Do we get to rest a little longer now?” the young mage asked.

“Nope,” Robin answered over his shoulder with a savage grin.

“I knew you’d say that,” the young Dark Mage sighed, sagging a little further. Arya put a comforting hand on her shoulder as Robin turned to the two wolves sitting near them.

“Kowrowa, Ita, tear ‘em up,” he said. “We’re right behind you. Girls, stay close to Tharja and Galle. We’re pushing through to the next floor.”

Kowrowa rose up, a chilling howl emanating from his muzzle before they took off at a speed that would have given even the fleet-footed Panne pause, leaping over the Shepherds and instantly turning the tide in their favor. Robin and the two girls ran forward, the tactician barely slowing as the other two stopped at the back of the formation. With a shout and a burst of wind magic Robin vaulted over his friends and landed behind the wolves. Sully and Vaike, the front-line with Chrom, looked startled for a moment, but the Exalt just gave a harsh laugh.

“What took you so long?” Chrom asked, falling in at Robin’s shoulder.

“Oh, you know me, I have to make an entrance,” Robin shrugged.

“More like you have to show off,” Chrom laughed.

“The audience loves it, though,” Robin smirked.

Their banter was cut off when a fresh wave of Risen from above arrived, Kowrowa and Ita backpedaling as Robin, Chrom, Vaike and Sully moved forward.

“Sully, with me; Chrom make sure Vaike doesn’t get himself killed,” Robin said quickly.

“Hoo-yeah, just like old times!” Vaike roared, grinning savagely.

“Think you can keep up?” Sully asked, smirking at Robin as she hefted the axe she’d exchanged her lance for.

Robin returned the smirk, gesturing without looking and sending a torrent of magical lightning up the stairs, incinerating the first rank of the Risen without any effort. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Oh it is on!” Sully declared, drawing her sword so she had a weapon in each hand.

The four Shepherds met the Risen charge, weathering the tide of blades and groaning creatures without breaking stride. Robin had had few opportunities to work with Sully directly, but she had always impressed him on the training ground. Even now, the way she ripped through the Risen effortlessly, her axe and sword both blurs in her experienced hands; so much so that Robin actually hung back as she and Vaike both pushed forward on the staircase.

It was no secret that a few of the more militaristic members of the Shepherds were envious of the Awakened powers that Robin and Chrom possessed. Their increased speed, strength and vitality would be the envy of any warrior, really. However the Shepherds were all friends, as well, and at worst their envy turned into excessive challenges on the training ground. That, and moments like these, as Vaike and Sully pulled ahead of Chrom and Robin, both veteran warriors fighting as if they had something to prove. The Exalt and the Tactician exchanged a glance, Robin grinning and giving a shrug.

In such close confines, where Chrom and Robin couldn’t even close with the enemy around Sully and Vaike’s wild swings, there was no real room for any technique to their fighting. Sully hacked and slashed with her twin weapons while Vaike swung his axe side to side, the two of them creating a wall of steel and flesh that the Risen couldn’t overcome no matter how many of their number were thrown at the Shepherds as they advanced. So overwhelming was Sully and Vaike’s charge that they single-handedly pushed through the Risen and up three more floors, coming out onto the next terraced level before finally stopping.

“Okay, those two are starting to make me feel bad,” Robin admitted.

“Vaike, Sully, switch out!” Chrom called to them.

“I didn’t mean I wanted to switch with them!” Robin groaned.

The Shepherds had made good time, nearing the top of the Tower now. Robin could still feel Clarus, like a lingering stink on the wind, above them. He could also still feel a great deal of Risen above them, too, something that shouldn’t have been possible.

The other Shepherds spread out on the terrace behind them, forming a line around Sully and Vaike to protect Maribelle and the mages. Arya looked nervously to her teacher, but joined the line with Galle all the same.

“You know what I don’t get?” Robin said conversationally as he and Chrom stepped past Vaike and Sully. “How do these people summon so many Risen? Honestly, if I tapped every ounce of Grima’s power left even I couldn’t summon this many.”

“You can summon Risen?” Chrom asked curiously.

“Really? That’s what you’re going to take away from what I just said?” Robin asked.

The next wave of Risen rushed forward, Robin and Chrom stepping to meet them. They continued to talk as they fought, though, putting in far less effort than Vaike and Sully had been forced to.

“Seriously, though,” Chrom went on, skewering one Risen and turning the blow into an arc that killed several more. “You can actually summon these things?”

“It’s incredibly unpleasant, but I’m sure I could, yes,” Robin sighed, side-stepping a blow from an axe and turning the weapon’s wielder into a pile of ash with the tip of his rapier. “Not important right now. Focus, Chrom.”

“Okay, so they have something powering them,” the Exalt said noncommittally as he spun, blue flames flickering in the tear-drop shaped gap in Falchion’s hilt. “It’s still above us, yes? We get up there, kill Clarus and destroy whatever’s powering him and these Risen.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Robin sighed, lashing out with a kick at a hulking, sword-wielding Risen before running it through. “Problem is we don’t know what it is giving them power.”

Chrom opened his mouth to respond but faltered, his eyes widening as he took a step backwards. “What… what in Naga’s name is that?”

Robin glanced up at the stairs to the next floor, freezing now himself. The Risen all backed off, letting out a raspy, unified roar as something huge came out of the shadows of the staircase. The monstrosity resembled the centaurs that showed up in myths and fairy tales, but taken from the deranged nightmares of a madman instead. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a moose from the forests outside of Ylisstol had impaled a Risen-infected mage on its antlers, but as Robin reluctantly looked closer he could tell they had been somehow combined. The moose’s dark brown fur had gone black as if it had rotted, large patches missing and showing great red weeping sores along its flanks and legs. The remains of what had clearly once been one of the students in the tower lolled brokenly atop the moose’s neck, its arms draped macabrely through the creature’s great antlers. However, the top of the moose’s head had been removed, the creature’s lower jaw roughly sutured to the student’s unhealthy, naked grey torso and the young man’s legs simply missing at hips which were sunken into the moose’s back. As it reached the terrace the Risen-mage turned its lolling head to Robin and Chrom, its dead eyes lighting up a baleful red as it stretched its slack mouth into a disgusting smile.

“Robin, kill it,” Chrom said urgently. “Kill it. Kill it now!”

The Tactician couldn’t answer, though, stumbling and holding a hand to his mouth. He gave up trying to keep it in, vomiting on the stones at his feet.

“Robin!?” Chrom asked.

The creature was giving off the same, concentrated aura of Grima’s magic that Clarus had, and it was making Robin sick. No doubt behind him the rest of the mages were in a similar state, too. With great effort Robin cut himself off from the mana lines beneath Ylisstol, from the mana in the air and even from the odic energy within himself, forcing a deep breath before straightening.

“Sorry, Chrom, we’re going to have to do this the old fashioned way,” he said, his voice weak. “Everyone else keep the Risen off of us. We’ll handle the… big ugly thing.”

The big Risen-mage thing stepped forward with a shudder, seeming to understand Robin’s words as a challenge. It smiled, its slack mouth pulling back to reveal rows of broken, flat teeth randomly broken up by pointed fangs.

“Ooh, that’s going to give me nightmares,” Robin muttered as he and Chrom stepped forward.

“You sure you can handle this?” Chrom asked as both men edged forward. He shot Robin a concerned look out of the corner of his eye, leery of taking his gaze off the Risen before them.

Robin shrugged. “Don’t have much choice, do we?”

With a muted roar the Risen flooded around the abominable mage-moose hybrid, the Shepherds stepping to meet them. An empty space was left, though, as Robin and Chrom squared off with what was clearly giving the weaker Risen their will to fight. It had been a long time since Robin had faced down a Chieftain of any variety, and still he couldn’t shake the memory of the one that had stomped on his chest during their first skirmish, so many years ago now. It didn’t help that this one, in particular, took the prize for ‘most horrifying Risen creation’, either.

With a great, throaty bellow the creature charged, Robin and Chrom both leaping to the side to escape its path. Where Robin focused solely on evasion Chrom brought his sword up, the blessed steel carving a deep furrow through the Risen’s flank before it sent Chrom reeling with a shake of its massive antlers. Worse, the blood that fell from the creature onto the stones began to hiss and sizzle, eating into the worn stone balcony and eliciting more groans from Robin and Chrom as the Exalt shook the acidic blood from his sacred sword.

“You have got to be kidding,” Chrom groaned, shaking his head.

By way of answer the Chieftain let out another deep, honking roar as it charged at Chrom, Robin racing after it as he slid his sword back into its sheathe. As beautiful and well-made as the blade was his rapier was just a mundane weapon. But the lone dagger still sheathed at his back, the dark blade Raziel that he’d used to kill Maris, was just like Falchion. In that it was nigh-on indestructible.

With a roar of his own Robin spun low, lashing out at the Chieftain’s tendons on its back legs. The ancient dagger, almost the length of Robin’s forearm, bit deep and severed the thick flesh, but the Chieftain didn’t slow, simply kicking out at Robin and continuing its charge. The Tactician arrested his own movement, throwing himself backwards onto his rear with a startled yelp as a massive hoof passed inches from his face. He rolled, attempting to avoid the splattering of acid blood that followed the beast’s blow, dodging aside as the droplets pattered harmlessly onto the hem of his enchanted coat.

“If that stains I’m going to be very upset!” Robin shouted indignantly as he leapt back to his feet.

“I think we have more important issues right now!” Chrom shouted, diving aside to narrowly avoid being impaled on the Chieftain’s antlers.

The Exalt let out a startled shout as one of the Chieftain’s human hands, which had so far been dangling limply atop the antlers, shot out and grabbed a bunch of his cape near his shoulder. With a yank the Risen dragged the surprised Exalt before it, directly in the path of its heavy hooves. Robin saw this and sighed, tossing his dagger up and catching it by the tip of the blade. With practiced, sure motions he threw the ancient weapon with all his strength, the spinning blade embedding itself in the Chieftain’s human neck in a torrent of black blood. Chrom rolled clear just as the burning viscera landed where he’d been lying, rolling back to his feet with a particularly savage look on his face. The Chieftain, for its part, let out a particularly human-sounding shriek of pain as it clawed at the dagger in its neck, pulling it out and tossing it aside, the weapon now coated in acid blood and totally unusable for Robin.

“I take it back,” the tactician mumbled, drawing his sword. “That’s what’s going to give me nightmares.”

“Less talking more killing!” Chrom snapped. “Why aren’t you using magic!?”

“Hey, there’s a person attached to this spellbook, thank you!” Robin huffed. “And I’ll have you know its not quite as easy as wave your hands and bang! There’s something-”

Robin stopped talking as both men were forced to dive aside again, the Risen Chieftain charging once more. Robin sprang back up, straightening his coat before brushing the hair from his face.

“Something here that’s polluting the mana,” he continued. “It’s making all of the mages sick, and I’m sure it’s what turned the students here into Risen.”

“How are we supposed to kill it if we can’t-” Chrom started.

“Death from above!”

Both men looked up as a massive form came streaking down from the sky, Basilio driving his axe into the Chieftain’s high back and severing its spine in a gout of acidic black blood. The Khan looked forlornly at the ruins of his axe as it melted in his hands, sighing and tossing the mangled weapon aside. Behind him Cynthia came in for a perfect landing on her pegasus, Idallia shakily slipping from its back before she urged the mount forward, passing Robin and Chrom in a flash and burying her lance in the Chieftain’s human back before taking to the sky again, leaving her weapon embedded in the Risen and melting. Cordelia and Cherche chose that moment to make their appearance, passing by Cynthia and both striking the Chieftain from their mounts as they flew past to engage the other smaller Risen.

“Like that,” Basilio said over the Chieftain’s pained wails. “That’s how you kill it.”

“Impressive, but it’s not dead yet,” Robin deadpanned.

“I can fix that,” Chrom growled, hefting Falchion and stepping forward.

The Exalt’s beautiful silver armor had been marred by the creature’s blood, burned through in places to the blue tunic and leathers beneath it. Chrom ignored the armor, simply yanking a clasp free and letting the breastplate fall off of him. He stopped next to the writing form of the Chieftain and lifted Falchion before bringing it down like an executioner’s axe, severing the Risen’s head and stepping aside to avoid more of the black blood.

“That was so cool, Dad!” Cynthia called from above them. “But I promised Mom I’d be right back, so…”

“Go then,” Chrom called to her, looking up with a small paternal smile on his face. “We can manage. Don’t keep your mother waiting.”

Cynthia saluted cockily before digging her heels into her mount’s sides and yanking on the reins, taking off for the palace like a loosed arrow. Chrom shook his head, his smile not abating as he flicked the toxic blood off of his blade once more.

Behind him Robin was squatting down near where Raziel had fallen, eying the dagger warily.

“How am I supposed to… pick it up? Do you think I could wash it off with water?”

“Probably,” Chrom said distractedly, glancing over the man’s head as he fiddled with the straps to his pauldrons. The other Shepherds were just about finished with the Risen now that Cordelia and Cherche had joined them, allowing the two leaders a brief respite. Chrom dropped the gauntlet and pauldron off his sword arm but opted to leave the pauldron and gauntlet on his off-hand, opening and closing his fist a few times as if he missed the feel of the Shield of Seals on his arm.

Basilio came strutting up, a flustered Idallia following close behind.

“That was a mighty stupid thing to do, jumping from a flying pegasus like that,” Robin said with a grin.

“Yeah, apparently that’s the second time someone’s done that to her,” Basilio laughed. “Thought you kids might need some help.”

Robin and Chrom both glanced at Idallia, the merchant-Khan frowning under their gazes.

“I see you brought the cavalry,” Robin deadpanned, looking back down to his knife.

Quirking his head he upended his waterskin on it, shaking the last drops out of it as a sizzling cloud of steam rose from the weapon. With tentative movements he took the weapon into his hand, bouncing it up and down in his palm as if it were on fire. After a few moments when his hand didn’t start to melt Robin gripped the dagger properly. A slight tingling in the skin on his fingers was all he felt, and with a nod he returned the weapon to its sheathe. Behind them the Shepherds were just finishing up with the last of the Risen, Maribelle stepping forward to treat the wounded. Robin was a little concerned to see Tharja sway drunkenly until Arya caught her, lending the older woman her shoulder as Femi looked on with barely concealed fear.

“What’s the plan?” Basilio asked seriously.

“Find you a weapon now that you’ve wrecked your axe,” Robin deadpanned.

Basilio barked out a laugh, pounding his fists together and flexing his massive arms. “Boy, I am the weapon. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve beaten a tower full of idiots to death with my bare hands. At least I’m wearing pants this time.”

“Oh that is so gross,” Robin groaned.

Behind the Khan Idallia wrinkled her face in disgust, subtly scooting away from the old man.

“Ricken is somewhere in the tower,” Chrom explained, clearly trying not to laugh. “Clarus, one of the Professors, went rogue and did… all of this. We find him, I’m pretty sure we’ll find Ricken and the other students.”

“And then we stab him,” Robin added.

“I like that plan,” Basilio guffawed.

“Please tell me there’s more to it that just ‘waltz in and stab the evil mage’,” Idallia sighed, rubbing her temples.

“No, that’s pretty much it,” Robin shrugged. “We’ve done all the hard work. All that’s left is to finish the boss.”

“I think you mean ‘we’ did all the hard work!” Galle called, indicating himself and the other Shepherds. “You just stood around talking! Sir!”

“I trained him so well,” Robin deadpanned.

Galle let out a little grunt as Maribelle knocked him in the back of the head with the top of her staff. “Hold still while I’m healing you,” she said shortly, shaking her head as she continued to work on a gash Galle had taken to the side of his head. Robin couldn’t help but grin; usually it was him that got smacked on the head with a staff.

“Take heart, friends!” Chrom called to the Shepherds, stepping past Robin. “We’re almost there! Soon we will root this Risen infestation out at the source and rescue our homes!”

Robin rolled his eyes as a cheer went up from the Shepherds; leave it to Chrom to always play the inspirational leader for the troops.

“Cordelia, Cherche, I think this is the last open terrace,” Robin said, approaching the two mounted women. “Can you leave your mounts here? I get the feeling we’re going to need all the bodies we can get for this one.”

Cordelia nodded once, dismounting without comment and smiling at Robin as she leaned on her lance. Cherche frowned, clearly not as happy with the idea as her counterpart, but dismounted all the same. Minerva let out a crooning warble, and Cherche reached up with one hand to stroke the large wyvern’s neck.

“It’s only for a little while,” she promised the wyvern. “Watch our backs, okay?”

Minerva seemed to shoot a withering glare at Robin as the two women moved to fall in with the rest of the Shepherds, but Robin just shrugged. There was no way he was about to apologize to a flying lizard, adorable and cuddly as it was. He fell in with a pale Tharja as they began to ascend again, giving her a worried look.

“You okay?” he asked softly, so the nearby Arya and Femi didn’t hear.

“I will be fine,” Tharja muttered, downing a stimulant in one gulp before continuing. “This power is… stifling. I’m already adapting. How are you coping?”

“I shut down my magic,” Robin shrugged, before adding “I couldn’t handle it anymore anyway.”

Tharja nodded, taking a deep breath and quickening her stride, forcing herself to return the aura of confidence she usually projected. Both Femi and Arya jumped a little as she brushed between them, the younger girls fairly quaking at Tharja’s passing. Robin just grinned and shook his head. Any chance to stroke her own ego. She really was no better than Aversa, just quieter.

The Shepherds charged up the final floors, emboldened by the death of the abominable Risen Chieftain and the piecemeal resistance that they faced along the way. Still, though, they hadn’t come across any living students or faculty, and the thought made Robin more than a little nervous. He knew better than anyone that Grimleal magic was maleficarum, blood magic requiring human life to fuel it.

“Tharja, what’s on the top floor?” he asked as they ran.

“An observatory,” she answered, slightly out of breath. “And yes, it is more than big enough to hold all the residents of the Tower.”

Robin nodded, grinning slightly at the way she had pre-empted him. Even after all this time she still knew how he thought.

The last several floors passed in a blur, the Shepherds exploding out onto the wide and open floor of the Observatory level at the very top of the tower, a cold wind blowing through the space at such a high altitude. There were no walls, only large stone pillars carved from the local rocks to hold up the conical roof. Numerous desks and other instruments had been shattered or kicked aside by the Risen, unceremoniously taking over the floor.

The Shepherds stopped as one, slowing with widening eyes as they stepped from the staircase. There, standing in the center of the floor surrounded by the remaining students and teachers on their knees, was Clarus and another younger man.

“Exalt Chrom!” Ricken called, looking up.

Robin’s first thought was that the skinny young mage had gotten much taller. His second was concern, seeing the dark purple bruising all along the side of his face as he gazed hopefully up at the new arrivals.

Clarus glanced at the young man, quirking a brow and waving a lazy hand. Ricken let out a loud shriek, falling forward onto his hands and knees as smoke rose from his flesh.

“Well,” Clarus drawled. “You managed to get past Galuc. Congratulations are in order.”

Chrom stepped forward, warily eyeing the students whimpering on their knees as they kept their eyes at the floor, a few of the braver ones looking at the panting Ricken where he was glaring up at Clarus from beneath his fringe. Aside from the other young man standing next to him, a young man who looked wholly free of Grima’s taint, Clarus was alone on this floor. No Risen, no more of the Risen infested mages, no more abominations. Robin doubted it would be this easy, but still he silently hoped.

“That… thing,” Chrom said, his strong voice carrying. “That was one of the students?”

“Ah, yes, Galuc,” Clarus said, smiling jovially as he clapped his hands together. “He was one of my apprentices, actually. I had three, you know. That Rommel bastard killed one of them. Galuc, he assisted in our experiments. My third, my protégé, is Alvidian here.”

The young man next to him nodded, smiling proudly.

“You would create such a… an abomination from one of your own apprentices?” Chrom asked dangerously.

“I see you’re upset by this,” Clarus remarked, cocking his head as if confused. “If it helps, he was long dead before the experiment.”

“No it does not!” Chrom thundered, Falchion blazing in his grip. “This is my city, and these are my people! I will let you profane them no longer!”

“No, it won’t take much longer,” Clarus said calmly. “Will it Alvidian?”

“No, Master, it won’t,” the mage apprentice said softly.

Before anyone else could act the young man drew a dagger from his robes and ran the knife across his throat. The nearby students screamed and began falling over themselves trying to get away as Alvidian fell to his knees, blood gushing down his chest as he gave a gurgling gasp. Red lines flared to life on the floor of the Observatory, the students’ panic rising as the last of the staff struggled to control them.

“Kill him!” Chrom roared, charging forward.

The others let out enraged war cries as they charged at Maris, Ita and Kowrowa’s howls adding to the cacophony as they bounded ahead of the slower bipedal Shepherds. For their part Maribelle, Olivia and Gaius began to usher the students down the stairs. Ricken rose up, too, the boy indeed having grown much taller since Robin had last seen him, and began to cast simple spells by memory, the way that Robin always had.

Clarus looked almost bored by all of the chaos around him. He raised his hand, and a number of the students still standing on the magic circle dropped, quickly turning to dust in their robes. Ricken saw this happening and managed to jump clear just in time, but still at least thirty were caught by the spell, only fueling the Shepherds’ rage. Just as Kowrowa leapt to snap Clarus’ neck in his jaws the mage glanced up and swatted the big wolf aside with the back of his hand. Beneath him the glow intensified and a wave of energy swept the charging Shepherds back.

“Fascinating,” Clarus muttered, stepping towards the fallen Kowrowa. “I once had the pleasure of dissecting one of the conies. A Taguel shapeshifter, much like yourself. Before they went extinct. I wonder… how will this power react with you?”

Kowrowa reared up, twisting and snapping at Clarus again, but his moves were desperate now as he tried to get away. At any other time a horse-sized wolf fleeing in terror from a small human might have been amusing, but Robin felt nothing but terror at the sight.

“Kowrowa get away from him!” Robin called out.

Ita gave a wordless roar of rage as she tried to save her friend, throwing herself futilely against the spell Clarus was using to keep them at bay.

“Yes,” Clarus nodded, grabbing Kowrowa by the throat. “You’re just what I needed. Thank you. I will ensure I mention your contribution when the stories of this moment are told.”

With a sickening crack Clarus jerked his arm, twisting Kowrowa’s head at an odd angle, and tossing him bodily to where his apprentice’s corpse still lay.

“And so begins the new world order!” Clarus declared, stepping back into the middle of the magic circle. “I will rewrite this world with this new power, and those that do not submit will be eradicated! Rejoice, brave Shepherds, for you shall be among the first to receive the master’s blessing!”

Robin shook his head, took a deep breath, closed his eyes and let go.

All of the carefully crafted mental walls, all of the protective wards he’d woven around his soul over the years, everything. And all at once Grima’s power came flooding back to him. With an enraged snarl falling from his lips Robin stole control of the spell from a shocked Clarus, inverting it and looking for somewhere, somewhere to release the power where it wouldn’t hurt anyone.

No, not in Ylisse… this much Grimleal magic would create fallout lasting generations…

He couldn’t release it over the sea, Gods only knew what it would do to the islands and coastal regions…

Not in the sky, either, where it would rain back down on the earth…

Somewhere…

Somewhere already broken…

Somewhere that no one would suffer for it…

Robin’s eyes widened as his magical senses found just such a place, dark energy causing the orbs to turn a depthless black in their sockets as he grinned.

“There,” was all he said, the word dripping with satisfaction.

And in a bright flash of light the top floor of the Mages’ Tower, and everyone on it, disappeared from Ylisstol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt silly just writing ‘mage-moose-hybrid’. But… Ha hah! Finally! We’re finally moving on to the Future of Despair DLC!


	21. Chapter 21

With a weak groan Arya awoke to darkness. Face-down she gave a little cough as dust threatened to cause her to go into a coughing fit, but she resisted the urge. All those years in the slums had made her alert instantly upon awakening, yet something still felt… off. She tried to roll over, only to find something heavy lying atop her. Not something, someone. Galle gave a groan of his own as she started to stir, shaking his head as he rose slowly to his hands and knees. Arya rolled out from beneath him in a small cloud of dust, vague memories of the older boy tackling her to the tower’s stone floor and shielding her with his own body rising to the forefront of her mind.

“You okay?” Galle managed to mumble, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

Arya went to answer, freezing instead as she finally looked up.

“Wh-where are we?” she asked in a small voice, looking around.

Galle glanced up now, too, giving another, louder groan as his shoulders slumped.

They could barely see a few meters around them, such was the depth of the darkness enveloping the two Plegians, but what they did see was like something from a bad dream. The ground was hard-packed dirt, cracked and utterly devoid of any moisture, a fine layer of ash-like dust atop it creating small clouds with every movement they made. The air itself was still and stagnant, neither carrying nor impeding the perpetual sea of dust. Around the pair the ground had become uneven, the ruins of what appeared to be the top floor of Ylisstol’s Mages’ Tower strewn about them haphazardly. Were it not for the sky above them Arya would have thought the pair had been transported inside some distant, cavernous tomb. Both she and Galle looked up, and a deep sense of foreboding began to grow inside of Arya.

No clouds.

No stars.

Nothing. Just… void. Darkness, infinite and inky black in the place of the cheerful blue skies she had come to love.

Worst was the dark red orb in the place of the sun, weakly glaring down at them and offering no light or heat. Just sitting there, above them, as if watching.

Arya couldn’t help but shudder as she looked at the dead sky.

Dead. That was all she could think of to describe this place.

Dead and abandoned.

The Plegian girl shuddered, a sense of despair settling into the pit of her stomach before Galle distracted her.

“Oh what fresh hell is this?” Galle muttered, running a dusty hand through his hair, leaving a streak of grey on the top of his head and contrasting sharply with the dark purple of his hair.

Voices drifted to them, a small light flashing in the distance from behind one of the larger piles of ruins, a great section of the Tower’s roof sticking up diagonal from the dusty earth. A figure with a torch, blindingly bright in the gloom of the alien space, stepped around the ruin, his face lighting up as soon as he spotted the pair. A second pair stepped out, Cherche hefting a large axe in her hands before relaxing upon recognizing the two Plegians.

“Hey! Hey!” Vaike called, waving the torch above his head. “Over here!”

Arya and Galle shakily drew to their feet, the girl letting out a relieved sigh as they started to move towards the two Shepherds. Galle, however, had to be the more pragmatic of the two and instantly began to question the two older warriors as they approached.

“What’s going on?” he croaked, trying to clear the dust from his throat. “Where are we? What happened to Clarus? Where’s Robin? What’s-”

“Easy, kid,” Vaike said, clamping his free hand on Galle’s shoulder. “Don’t know, no idea, hopefully he got crushed by the rubble too, and that’s who we’re lookin’ for now. Any more questions, ask Cherche; Teach is gonna keep lookin’ for Robin.”

With that the spiky-haired man gave the wyvern rider a significant nod, leaving the trio alone in the gloom as he ambled off with the torch. Now around the other side of the ruins Arya could see the flickering of more lamps in the distance, her mind silently yearning for the comfort and warmth of the light.

“Here,” Cherche said kindly, offering both of them waterskins. “Drink sparingly, we don’t know when we’ll be able to refill them.”

Arya nodded, accepting the half-empty skin she was offered and taking a few sips. Galle gargled before spitting, muttering something about never being able to escape from sand and dust as he re-fixed the stopper in place and pocketed the waterskin. Arya glanced timidly up at the older woman currently watching the ruined, dead landscape around them with an intent, piercing gaze; she didn’t know anything about Lady Cherche except what the others had told her, that she was a Valmese maid-warrior and had been a vassal to House Virion of Rosanne before marrying the Duke. The older woman seemed intense, but hid it behind a carefully neutral mask or perfectly-crafted fake smile, from what Arya had seen of her. Her eyes never changed, though, always with the same forceful spirit burning within them.

Cherche turned that gaze onto Arya when she noticed the younger girl staring, and the young trainee-tactician gave a little squeak, blushing as she quickly looked away. Cherche merely chuckled a little, resting a gauntleted hand comfortingly on her shoulder.

“Come, let us return to the base camp,” she said, her tone one of suggestion yet at the same time brokering no disagreement from them.

The two Plegians exchanged a glance before Galle helplessly sighed, shrugging and motioning they follow the wyvern knight. They moved slowly and cautiously through the dark rubble-strewn landscape, wary of tripping in the gloom. Galle trailed behind as the two women led, shuffling along slowly. As Arya began to worry about him Cherche spoke, looking up at the sky.

“Odd, isn’t it?” she said, her voice soft. “It’s almost beautiful. Like a solar eclipse.”

Arya followed her gaze to the pulsing red orb in the sky where the sun would usually be burning, unable to follow the older woman’s logic. Before she could ask what Cherche was talking about, though, Galle gave a pained grunt and dropped to one knee.

“Galle!” Arya cried, spinning. “What’s wrong? Were you hurt!?”

“I’m… f-fine,” the Plegian boy managed to groan.

“Clearly you’re not,” Cherche said, kneeling before him and pressing a hand to his brow.

“It’s… it must just be an after-effect of the spell Sir Robin used to get us here,” Galle mumbled. “My head is killing me.”

Arya blinked a few times, straightening as she, too, realized she had a headache.

Before she could ask more questions the unnatural stillness was rent by a high-pitched scream, echoing off the ruins around them. Cherche was on her feet again in an instant, frowning as she looked around for the source of the scream. Arya looked around, too, the sound bouncing off the various ruins and making the source hard for her to locate. Galle lurched to his feet, pointing to one of the piles of rubble as a second, longer scream began to echo.

“It’s coming from over there,” he said.

“Let’s go,” Cherche said, taking off at a run.

Arya lingered by Galle’s side as he shook his head in an attempt to clear it, racing after the wyvern knight.

“Grima, she rides a giant lizard everywhere, why does she run so fast?” the Plegian boy muttered irritably, earning a snort of laughter from Arya.

Two other groups converged on the rubble, Chrom and Sully arriving first as Basilio and Idallia slid down another large piece of tower roof sticking out of the ground. When they reached the source of the screaming Chrom planted his torch in the ground, the Exalt and his knight heaving the large pieces of rubble out of the way. Basilio began to help them without a word when he and Idallia arrived, the newer Khan woman staying out of the way and drifting over the where Arya and Galle were watching from behind Cherche.

“Relax! We’ll have you out in just a moment!” Chrom promised whoever was under the rubble.

“It hurts!” the person screamed. “It hurts! Make it stop! Please, make it stop!”

Arya started, taking a few steps forward as she realized that it was Femi screaming beneath the rubble.

With one last heave Chrom, Sully and Basilio tipped a large piece of rubble away, revealing two bodies caked in dust and blood. Tharja lay atop Femi, shielding her much the same way Galle had tried to shield Arya. The older woman slowly sat up, her long perfect hair plastered to one side of her face with grey-red mud, fresh blood still running from the gash above her hairline. Tharja hissed, clutching at her shoulder and swaying dangerously, managing to half-rise before falling to one knee. Femi, though, writhed on the ground, clutching at her shoulders and letting loose another shrill scream. From what Arya could see the young mage wasn’t physically hurt, but clearly something was ailing her.

“Girl stop screaming,” Tharja murmured as Chrom knelt down and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Tharja! Are you okay?” the Exalt asked.

“Do I look okay?” Tharja deadpanned, shaking her head. “Where’s Robin? I need him.”

“Wh-what? We haven’t found him yet. What’s wrong with her?” Chrom asked, looking to the girl gasping on the ground.

“It’s complicated,” Tharja sighed. “But you’ll do in a pinch. If I can’t force an acclimatization I can always just keep it at bay for now. Yes, that will work as a stop-gap… Exalt Chrom, I’m going to need some of your blood.”

“His what!?” Sully asked, disgust coloring her features. “Are you out of your-”

The knight was cut off when Femi let out another scream, her voice weaker now as she faded into a whimper.

“Quickly now, give me your hand before the girl dies,” Tharja snapped.

To his credit Chrom didn’t hesitate before pulling off his glove and holding out his hand. He trusted all of his allies implicitly, even the ones as weird and abrasive as Tharja. A small modicum of fear clouded his features as she drew a small knife and dish from the pouch on her hip, though.

“I apologize, this will hurt but there is no other way right now,” she said, gently sliding the razor sharp knife over Chrom’s wrist.

He hissed as blood began to pool in the small dish, quickly filling it. Once she had enough Tharja pressed a rag to his wound, offering him a vulenary. The whole exchange had taken less than a few minutes, but Femi’s whimpers had gotten weaker. Tharja herself swayed as she scooted over to her student, muttering something beneath her breath and using her thumb to dab the Exalt’s blood on Femi’s forehead. The girl instantly quieted, breathing a sigh of relief before going still. As her breathing became regular again Tharja leaned back, giving a small sigh before repeating the ritual on herself.

“The mana, the land, the very air itself here is polluted by Grima’s foul taint,” Tharja explained. “Your blood holds the power of Grima’s antithesis, Naga. It will do for a time to keep us mages alive until I find a more permanent solution. Arya, Galle, come here.”

“Should we be worried?” Idallia asked, fear evident in her voice.

“We’re Feroxi, we never get worried,” Basilio snorted.

“I’m Ylissean,” Idallia responded exasperatedly.

“Not anymore you’re not,” the big man said with a grin.

“At this stage, no,” Tharja said, quickly repeating the ritual on first Arya and then Galle. “But we don’t want to linger here. Right now it is just… painful for the mages. Later, though, we will begin to grow sick. Weak. All of us, not just the mages. How is Ricken faring?”

“He was knocked unconscious by the rubble,” Chrom explained, still holding the rag to his wrist. “Maribelle was with him. Neither of them really… looked very good.”

Tharja nodded, quickly performing the ritual on Arya and Galle before shakily rising to her feet. “Take me to them. You need to have your wrist healed properly anyway.”

“Yes, thank you for that,” Chrom said, rolling his eyes even as he offered Tharja his arm. “You look a little unsteady. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Admittedly, I may require Maribelle’s attention myself,” Tharja muttered, her voice sounding a little weak. “I believe my shoulder is dislocated.”

Chrom nodded, then without warning yanked down hard on the arm Tharja was holding close to her body. The mage let out a pained shriek, Chrom catching her as she almost fainted.

“What were you thinking!?” Tharja hissed.

“That it was better to get your shoulder back into place sooner rather than later?” the Exalt shrugged. “It hurts less if you don’t have time to think about it.”

“I still have quite a bit of your blood to curse you with, foolish man,” Tharja groaned, gingerly moving her arm.

“Feels better though, right?” Chrom persisted with a grin.

Tharja just gave him an evil glare, continuing to lean on him.

“We’ll follow with Femi,” Cherche said, clearly trying not to laugh as she bent down and scooped the young mage up in her arms, balancing her axe beneath the girl.

“We’ll keep looking for Robin,” Basilio rumbled, practically dragging Idallia with him back into the rubble and not even trying to hide his laughter. “C’mon, Sully. You can help us.”

Sully gave a nod, giving Tharja one last suspicious look before turning away and following the two Khans into the darkness.

* * *

Arya watched as Tharja let out a subtle sigh of relief, Lady Maribelle’s healing magic currently running through her. The cleric-turned-magistrate looked pained, though, beads of sweat dotting her brow and her pretty face twisted in a grimace of concentration.

The ‘camp’ that the Shepherds had set up was simply a pile of the more usable rubble next to a small fire for illumination. Long lengths of unbroken timber taken from the ruins of the tower were stacked up, the broken ones being used as fuel for the fire along with the unsalvageable remnants of the ancient books that had been brought with them by Clarus’ spell.

Ricken and Femi, both still unconscious, lay on their backs on Maribelle’s other side, where the healer could keep her eye on them. A few of the others still wandered around, Olivia, Gaius and Cordelia adding either to the ‘keep’ or ‘fire’ piles of rubble while the rest were out looking for Robin. With Tharja and Femi everyone but the tactician had been located now.

“So,” Galle began quietly from Arya’s side. “How… are you holding up?”

She glanced over at him, a thankful smile on her face. “Like Sir Robin said, I’m compartmentalizing. This place… frightens me. But until we’re all here I feel like it would be a waste to panic.”

“Huh. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for,” Galle said with a grin.

“I can’t be the scared little girl forever,” Arya smirked, giving the older boy’s shoulder a small shove.

She looked around again, at the cold dead landscape she could see and the oppressive darkness. ‘Scared’ was slightly underselling it. This place, wherever it was, terrified her to no end. Ever since her mage training she had been able to feel the thrum of the mana in the earth and the air, and it had comforted her. Knowing that there was energy, life, around her all the time had been a calming factor for her. Even in Plegia, where it was so hard to cast magic, she could feel it in the back of her mind. But here… it was just dead. A bare wisp of mana in the air, almost as little as a spell residue. With a shiver that she desperately tried to hide Arya tried to stop herself thinking that it felt like just before she had joined with Robin and his Shepherds, when she had been helpless.

Arya’s downward spiral was interrupted when Tharja let out a pained hiss, causing the girl to glance up at her one-time teacher. Tharja was yanking her injured arm back from Maribelle, the two women clearly about to come to blows.

“I told you it still hurts,” Tharja said hotly.

“It should not, it should be fully healed by now,” Maribelle huffed. “Do not be such a drama queen. It is just phantom pain.”

“It is not phantom pain, I’m telling you it didn’t heal right,” Tharja ground out. “Either do it again or give me the staff and let me do it myself.”

“I will not allow you to taint the staff given to me by my beloved,” Maribelle responded, her voice growing in volume.

With a sigh Chrom rose from where he was kneeling near the pile of more intact books that had been salvaged, the Exalt frowning as he approached the mage and the healer.

“Ladies, do I have to take your toys away?” he asked, quirking one brow. “Maribelle, Tharja’s no novice, I’m sure she’d know the difference between phantom pain and actual pain. And Tharja, Maribelle is under a lot of stress right now. Both of you need to play nice.”

“Do not presume to speak to me like I am one of your whelps,” Tharja snapped, rising to her feet.

“Indeed, Exalt Chrom,” Maribelle added, standing next to the mage. “We are both deserving of far more respect than you just addressed us with! Now Tharja, sit back down so I can take another look at your shoulder.”

Chrom grinned and chuckled as both women returned to their seats, Maribelle running her staff over Tharja’s shoulder again as the mage almost pouted.

“Little trick I learned from your teacher,” Chrom said to Arya conspiratorially as he passed. “Give them something else to think about and they’ll usually forget they’re arguing.”

“That was a lot more subtle than I’ve come to expect from you, milord,” Galle said with a grin.

“Oh yeah, you’re one of his,” Chrom laughed, patting the younger tactician on the shoulder.

“Hey!” Vaike called, suddenly entering the firelight with something slung over his shoulder.

Everyone glanced up as the shirtless man ran up to Maribelle and the others. Once he got closer the thing on his shoulder resolved itself as a familiar black coat.

“Put him down here,” Maribelle ordered, not looking up from Tharja’s shoulder. “I’ll get to him once I’m done-”

“I’m fine, see to him now,” Tharja snapped, rising to her feet.

“I was unaware that a common-born Dark Mage knew the intricacies of healing better than I,” the magistrate responded hotly.

“He’s more important than me,” Tharja hissed, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

It took a moment for her self-depreciating words, spoken so hostilely to Maribelle, to sink in for the healer. With a frown and a nod she moved to stand over Robin, pulling his coat aside and inspecting him for injuries. Her fingers probed quickly and gently before she pulled up the hem of his shirt, letting out a small gasp.

“What? What is… oh Naga…” Chrom asked, trailing off as he loomed over Maribelle.

Arya and Galle moved to look down on their unconscious teacher as well, Galle sucking in a quick breath as Arya reeled, bringing her hands to cover her mouth. Dark purple lines covered the scarred, toned stomach of the man, lines like something from a spellbook. Judging from what Arya could see beneath his collar, they covered his entire chest at the least. Something about them made her instantly uncomfortable; they reminded her of the circles they used to call on dark magic, but…

“Aright,” Chrom said decisively, reaching down to pull Robin’s shirt back over his stomach. “Arya, Galle, let’s give them some space. Maribelle, Tharja, can you…”

“I’ll make sure he’s okay,” Tharja promised, kneeling down next to Robin’s head.

“We both will,” Maribelle added, bringing her staff to bear. “He has endured far too much to perish in a forsaken land such as this.”

Chrom gave them both a grateful nod, steering Arya and Galle away from the wounded with a firm hand on both of their shoulders.

“What’s… happening to him?” Galle asked, his usual confident tone replaced by trepidation.

“Hard to say,” Chrom sighed, leading them over to the fire. “He never actually explained it to us. I don’t think he knows what it is himself. Something like this happened before, but I was hoping that with Grima gone it wouldn’t… happen again. His link to the Fell Dragon was supposed to have been severed.”

Cordelia appeared across the fire from them, carefully laying a few more pieces of wooden rubble into the flames and speaking without taking her eyes off her task. “It is nothing to worry about. Without Validar around he should, by rights, have control now. At least that’s what he always said.”

Chrom nodded gratefully at the Wing Commander, the saffron haired woman smiling slightly at the gesture. “We have nothing to fear,” Chrom added reassuringly. “Once Robin wakes up he’ll be back to annoying us, just like always. Why don’t the two of you help Cordelia organize the salvage?”

Galle sighed and nodded, but Arya hesitated. A thought occurred to her, and she couldn’t help but feel like it was what Robin would have done in her place.

“Where… is Ita? I’d, uh, like to, I mean, I think someone should speak… to her.”

Chrom and Cordelia both hesitated, before the red-haired woman gave her liege a nod. He grinned guiltily, backing off as she began to speak.

“She is over there,” Cordelia explained, pointing to the other side of the camp. “Behind that large piece of rubble. It’s… where we’ve been putting the bodies as we find them.”

Arya nodded gratefully before looking up to Galle. The older Plegian shrugged, turning away. “Knock yourself out. I don’t even like her.”

“Then you can assist me with salvage,” Cordelia said, stepping away from the fire.

“I don’t like salvage, either,” Galle sighed as he obediently followed her.

Arya couldn’t help but grin at her friend’s irritated mumbling, watching for a moment as he and the Pegasus Knight began to sift through the wreckage at the edge of the firelight. She took a deep breath, her gaze lingering where Tharja and Maribelle were still crowding Robin before she turned away from the fire in the direction Cordelia had indicated. As much as she liked Ita, the wolf shape-shifter still intimidated her. But after watching her pack-mate be killed like that, helpless to stop it… Arya knew that in Ita’s position she’d want someone to talk to.

Picking her way carefully through the rubble Arya moved to the very edge of the firelight, watching her footing. The rubble was worse in this direction, as if whatever spell had brought them here had launched the observatory forwards as well and now Arya proceeded through its trail. Old habits from her days as a thief came rushing back unbidden, her movements barely making a sound and her steps no longer kicking up dust. She stepped over pieces the size of melons and had to climb over chunks the size of Anna’s cart, stopping to get her bearings atop one such piece as she realized she was well and truly outside of the fire’s illumination now. All she had to see with was the dull red glow of the dead sun above her, which admittedly didn’t do very much.

She turned towards a flat space at the sound of a sniffle, followed by three more. Shocked that the taciturn and moody Ita would actually be crying Arya leapt down to the ground in a small cloud of dust, approaching with purposely heavy footsteps so Ita wouldn’t be surprised. Shapes in the inky darkness resolved themselves, several forms laid out in a neat row with their faces covered. Nearest to her Ita knelt beside the massive form of Kowrowa, a small cloth covering his face out of respect.

“Manspawn,” Ita said, her voice even.

Arya stopped a small distance away, wary of interrupting the shape shifter’s grief. Ita glanced up at her, her eyes dry. She had most likely just been testing the air, then, the way she always did.

“Ita,” Arya greeted. “I came to… to see h-how you were doing.”

Ita smirked as she looked back to the row of the dead, and Arya cursed herself for stuttering at such an important time.

“I grieve,” Ita said slowly. “I feel… pain. But I will continue the task our Queen set us. I will continue to protect Robin.”

Arya nodded, taking a few tentative steps to stand next to Ita. “Kow was always… very kind to me,” she said softly.

“He had a soft-spot for weaklings and runts,” Ita chuckled. “It was why he… took me in. We come from different litters, but share the same mother. In human terms he was my brother, but such things are not as important to our people.”

Arya nodded, reeling from the information. She felt like she should say something, but having been an orphan for so long left her a little lost when it came to matters of family. She thought, instead, of losing Galle or Mari, or even Robin or Lucina, and felt the cold grip of fear around her heart. But before she could put the feeling into words of comfort the shape-shifter continued to speak.

“I was the runt of the litter,” Ita continued, her voice still even. “I was left to die in the forest, as is our tribe’s custom. Kow… he came to save me. Raised me, broke our traditions to do it. Taught me to fight. To be strong. I… owe him everything.”

Ita stood, her tail pointing almost straight down as she finally showed emotion and bared her fangs at the darkness. “And I will personally tear the mage’s head off with my bare hands.”

The wolf shape shifter seemed to deflate a little, her expression hardening as she turned back towards the camp. After a few steps she stopped, glaring over her shoulder at Arya.

“Are you coming?” she snapped. “Leave the dead to their rest. We have work to do.”

“R-right!” Arya said quickly, hurrying to keep up with the woman.

* * *

That evening Chrom let out a tired sigh as he stared into the fire, clenching and unclenching his fist around Falchion’s hilt in an absent display of stress. Of course, calling it ‘evening’ was totally arbitrary given that there hadn’t been a change to the lighting or weather since they had arrived in whatever Naga-forsaken land this was. Not even a breeze across the dusty landscape. It was distressing, the silent emptiness. It felt for all the world like the Shepherds were the only living beings left in this dead world, a thought Chrom was secretly terrified by. 

Most of the others had settled in around the fire, too, the crackling of the flames on the debris and the warmth of the light comforting in the dead quiet, many simply lying down and going to sleep hungry. Chrom hadn’t want to institute extreme rationing just yet, but given the look of this land he’d been too afraid to even drink their scarce supply of water.

A few of the others were still up and about. Cordelia was taking the first watch, the Wing Commander sitting atop one of the higher pieces of rubble with her lance across her lap, tirelessly looking out over the dark plains of dust. Ricken had wandered from the camp when he’d awoken, claiming a need for some space to process what had happened to him that day. Chrom had left the mage to his devices, the younger man promising not to stray too far. Basilio, too, was still wandering around the rubble, more from a strange sense of morbid curiosity than anything else at this point, Chrom gathered. The big Khan had wandered into the dusty landscape a few hours ago, claiming he ‘wanted to see what he could see’. The older ruler’s wanderlust was the stuff of legends among his people and his friends, and Chrom had simply relented rather than force him to sneak off in the ‘night’. It did make Chrom feel slightly more at ease that such an experienced tracker would be scouting the terrain for them; they couldn’t remain here forever, after all.

After a time Owain came to sit next to his uncle, the usually boisterous young blonde man letting out a slight sigh as he sank into a sitting position. He chewed on a small piece of jerky for a few moments before Chrom finally spoke.

“Well, silence,” he said with a lop-sided smirk. “That’s rare for you.”

Owain glanced up, his face blank before breaking into a small grin. “Sorry, Uncle Chrom. I’m not… really feeling the whole ‘Owain Dark’ thing right now.”

“No, no,” the Exalt laughed. “It’s a nice change of pace. But I’m a smart enough man to know that it means something’s bugging you.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Owain said, trying to shrug it off.

“Owain,” Chrom said, firmly but kindly. “I know I’m not really your Uncle, but I do think of you as my nephew. You’re family. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I’ll listen if you want to talk.

Owain looked down, clasping his hands before he spoke.

“You know, this looks… a lot like the future I came from,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s… worse though. It’s like there’s nothing left. We still had some plants, could still feel the wind, but… here it’s just dead. I can feel it, in the mana. There’s nothing. I made Owain Dark so I could deal with that, and I don’t… want to think for even a second that I’ve gone back there.”

Chrom nodded, letting a breath out through his nose as he clapped a comforting hand on his nephew’s shoulder. This information was… disturbing, to say the least. It meant that perhaps Robin’s use of Clarus’ spell had sent them through time, and how they would get back he couldn’t even fathom. But that was a problem for later.

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Chrom said reassuringly. “Even if we were, and I don’t think we are, it won’t be like before. You’re stronger now, and you’ve got all of us with you.”

Owain, looked up, a small smile curling the corner of his lips as he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Uncle Chrom. Give me a sec, I’ll be back to myself in no time.”

“Maybe keep a lid on it until we’ve all had a chance to rest,” Chrom laughed softly.

Owain froze, glancing at the others lying about the fire before he slowly nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. If Miss Cordelia is anything like Severa when she wakes up…”

“I actually meant to ask about that,” Chrom said, a glint of mischief flashing in his eyes. “You two have been travelling around together for a while now, right?”

“Er, y-yes,” Owain spluttered, blushing. “B-but we’re, we’re fated companions! To travel separately makes my blood ache and my sword hand-”

Chrom laughed, stopping the boy before he could go off on one of his infamous ‘sword hand rants’. Owain simply turned away from his Uncle, his blush spreading up to his ears.

“Oh, you’re just as bad as your father was,” Chrom chuckled, rising to his feet.

Owain glanced up, giving the older man a curious look.

“Gonna go find Ricken,” Chrom explained. “Basilio I’m not worried about, but Ricken’s been through a lot today. I’m worried about him.”

“I’ll join you, then,” Owain offered, standing himself. “I don’t really want to be… left alone with my thoughts right now.”

Chrom smirked, nodding and beginning to follow the young mage’s footprints away from the fire.

“You know, this reminds me an awful lot of how my adventure with Robin started,” Chrom said conversationally as they picked their way through the debris. “Except it was your mother wandering away from the campsite in the middle of the night, back when Lucina first arrived in our timeline. You lot never did explain why you came separately.”

“Naga’s spell was rushed,” Owain shrugged. “Imperfect. I recall Laurent confessing amazement that we all made it to the past at all.”

“Well, I’m glad you all did,” Chrom said. “I can only imagine what would have happened if you hadn’t.”

“I’m sure at least one of us would have made it,” Owain said dismissively.

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be the same,” Chrom told him.

Owain paused for a moment before grinning guiltily and nodding. “Yeah. Yeah I guess it wouldn’t.”

They continued picking their way through the ruins of the tower in silence for a time, both men simply focusing on not falling and breaking an ankle in the low light as Chrom cursed himself for not bringing a torch. After a few feet Owain stopped, holding his hand palm-up and scrunching up his face in concentration. Just as Chrom was convinced the boy was about to go on some silly over-theatrical rant a small flame flickered to life above his palm, and he let out a breath.

“Impressive,” Chrom commented.

“Not really,” Owain said bashfully. “Usually it takes a lot less effort. I must be tired.”

They started walking again, the light from Owain’s little flickering flame making their progress much easier.

“So why magic?” Chrom asked.

“I… don’t know,” Owain admitted. “Practically, knowing fire spells makes camping much easier, especially up north. Plus it, uh, you know…”

“It what?” Chrom persisted.

“It looks really cool when Robin switches between swords and magic,” Owain admitted.

Without meaning to Chrom burst out laughing, having to stop and hold his sides as he continued to laugh. “Of course that’s why!” the Exalt practically howled in his hysterics.

Owain simply blushed, looking embarrassed as his Uncle continued to laugh, finally calming and wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

“And that, my boy, is why I’m grateful you made it back to us in the past,” Chrom chuckled, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Just like your mother, you always know how to make me laugh.”

It didn’t take them much longer to reach the makeshift graveyard where they had left the bodies that had been transported to wherever this was with the Shepherds. A single row of corpses, their faces respectfully covered, sat in the shadow of one of the larger pieces of rubble, a fair way from the camp, Robin’s shape-shifting companion among them. Quite a few students from the Mages’ Tower had been trapped in the periphery of whatever spell Clarus had concocted, killing them instantly. To one side was a neatly folded pile of robes; all that remained of the mad mage’s initial spell to power the transportation. Most distressing, though, were the parts of corpses that had appeared on the periphery of the spell. Arms, legs, and even in one unfortunate case the upper half of one of the other senior mages, all cut off by the edge of the spell and displaced, before being dumped with the Shepherds. It had been macabre work, once they had set up camp, to clean up the tragic mess, but the Shepherds had set to the task with the same grim-faced determination that they handled every other unpleasant task with.

And Ricken sat, not far from the row of the deceased, watching over them with a forlorn expression on his young face.

“Ricken,” Chrom called softly, Owain hanging back as the Exalt approached. “It’s getting late, and we don’t know how safe it is here.”

“I know,” came the young mage’s reply.

Chrom stood beside the young man, crossing his arms and looking over the row of bodies with the same icy feeling in his chest he always got when he had seen casualty reports back in Valm or Plegia. “You blame yourself,” he said softly.

Ricken nodded slightly before speaking. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I’m trying hard not to, trying to blame Clarus, but… he couldn’t have done… this overnight. He had to have time to prepare. Right under my nose. And I didn’t notice.”

“We’ll make him pay, Ricken,” Chrom promised.

“You know, I didn’t deserve the position at the Mages’ Tower,” the younger man said after a moment. “Not the one I got, anyway. There were so many other more qualified candidates, but they gave it to me. Because I was a Shepherd. Because I was a hero.”

“You are a Shepherd, and you are a hero,” Chrom said. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“A hero could have stopped this,” Ricken said sullenly.

“What does that make me, then?” Chrom asked, glancing down at the mage. “My palace was over-run, just like the Tower.”

“I don’t think it’s really the same-”

“And Robin,” Chrom pressed on. “His school was destroyed. We all… fail. Every one of us. The mark of a hero is what they do after they fail.”

Ricken seemed to digest this for a moment before nodding again. “I just wish I could have done… something. Something more.”

“Sometimes there’s simply nothing more we can do except keep living,” Chrom sighed. “And make sure that it doesn’t happen again. For what it’s worth, I think you did a good job today. You did the Shepherds proud.”

“Thanks, Captain,” Ricken smiled sadly, falling back on Chrom’s nostalgic old Shepherds’ title. It had been a long time since he’d been the Captain of the Shepherds, though; Vaike held that position now.

“Just… don’t stay out here too much longer,” Chrom said gently. “You’ll need to rest. We’ve got to figure out how to get home from here.”

“I know, I’ll be back soon,” Ricken agreed. “I just feel like I need to stay… a little bit longer is all.”

Chrom nodded, placing a comforting hand on the mage’s shoulder before turning away and walking back to the camp with Owain in silence.

* * *

The first thing Robin felt when he woke was pain. Not the shooting, searing pain he’d become so accustomed to after fighting for so long but a dull ache in his entire body, the likes of which he hadn’t felt in a long time. Everything simply hurt. From the tips of his toes to the top of his head, everything felt like he’d been hit by a runaway cart.

Letting out a weak groan that devolved into a wet cough, Robin opened his eyes.

And immediately wished he hadn’t.

An empty void with a pulsating, sick red orb was what greeted his gaze. The empty sky was disconcerting, but the red orb more so. It reminded him of Grima’s Awakening, when the Fell Dragon had been revived in Plegia so many years ago now.

“Good. You’re awake.”

Robin glanced to his side, seeing Ita sitting and resting her chin on her knees. She wore the same surly face as usual, but her tail was very slightly flicking from side to side, as if she were trying to stop it.

“I didn’t know you cared,” the tactician managed to rasp.

Ita huffed, tossing a waterskin at him. “Drink, but drink sparingly. We have yet to find fresh water.”

Robin did so, sitting up a little and taking a few slow gulps of the water. “Where are the others?” he asked when he finished.

“Sleeping,” Ita said, taking the waterskin back. “We don’t know what time it is here. The sky never changes. But the blue-haired oaf decided the pack needed to rest.”

“Where… where are we?” he asked slowly.

Ita shrugged, going back to sitting with her chin perched on her knees. “You should know better than any of us. From what the other manspawn say you were the one that brought us here.”

Robin let out a breath, allowing himself to fall back into a laying position. “I really stepped in it this time, huh?”

“Stepped in what?”

“It’s a saying. It means I screwed up. Dragged you all here with me.”

“You did.”

After a moment of silence Robin smirked, sitting up properly this time despite his body’s protests. He let out a hiss at a sharper pain in the back of his neck, instinctively brining his hand to the area. Robin let out another, longer sigh at what he found. The black cracks in his skin, the price to pay for over-using Dark Magic, had spread.

A sound, a stirring at his side distracted his self-destructive thoughts before they could even begin. Robin glanced over to the side opposite where Ita was still perching, finding Arya curled up beneath Galle’s coat about a meter away from him. She had woken, no doubt thanks to Robin speaking, and was sitting up. Unlike most girls her age, though, there was no bleary eyes or groggy blinking, Arya was instantly alert and awake. Another throwback to her time on the streets, Robin supposed.

“Hey there,” he said softly. “Everyone still alive?”

Arya nodded slowly, as if she were afraid any sudden movements would make her mentor disappear. He found that almost adorable, and couldn’t help but chuckle.

“How are you feeling?” she asked hesitantly.

“Like hell,” Robin sighed. “Nothing new. It’s… like magical withdrawal. I’ll survive.”

“That can happen?” Arya asked, suddenly concerned.

Robin couldn’t help but smirk at the girl’s horrified expression. “Not to you it can’t. We’re not… teaching you how to tap this. With any luck Tharja, myself and my sister will be the last ones that ever use this type of magic.”

“But Lady Tharja said that if we stayed here too long we would get sick,” Arya persisted.

“Maybe,” Robin shrugged. “I can’t… really feel any mana right now. My body just kinda shut it down. If Tharja said so, though, I’d believe it. What’s that on your face?”

Arya blinked, reaching up and brushing some of the hair off her forehead. Robin blinked, recognizing a familiar symbol drawn in blood on the girl’s face. He couldn’t, for the life of him, recall where he’d seen it before, though.

“Lady Tharja said… it would help keep us safe,” Arya explained.

“Is that my blood?” Robin asked.

“It’s actually mine. And she’s lucky Frederick isn’t here. He probably would have killed her on the spot.”

Robin and Arya both glanced up to see Chrom standing above the tacticians, his arms crossed and a big grin on his face. The Exalt knelt down closer to Robin, looking intently at his neck. “Well, at least those damned lines have gone away,” he said.

“Dammit, did I really have the lines again?” Robin groaned.

“Oh yeah, big time,” Chrom chuckled. “You’ve been out for nearly a whole day now. We were getting ready to build a sled to drag you with.”

“What, not gonna ask me how I’m feeling?” Robin grinned.

“Actually I was thinking something closer to ‘where are we’?” Chrom said, quirking one brow.

Robin was brought up short, letting a breath out through his nose and shrugging. “Short answer is I have as much idea as you.”

“Ricken and Tharja both insist you took control of the spell in the end,” Chrom pointed out. “You have to have some idea.”

“I don’t know, Chrom,” Robin sighed. “I genuinely don’t. I looked for somewhere… dead. Somewhere safe where whatever it was Clarus was doing wouldn’t hurt anyone. I didn’t mean… to bring anyone else with me.”

“So can you just… send us back?” Chrom asked hopefully.

“No,” Robin sighed. “Not as I am. I’d need a huge power source, like Clarus tapped to bring us here. And… if I tried to do it using Grima’s power again I’m sure it would end up killing me. I’d rather exhaust all other options before I resort to doing that.”

“You won’t be doing that at all,” Chrom growled.

Robin just smirked, shaking his head a little. The Exalt always had been insistent that no one die needlessly. Even more-so than Robin was.

“Well, we’re here now,” Chrom sighed. “And we’ll be having a very long talk about your predisposition to self-sacrifice later. Again.”

“That’s a pretty big word for you,” Robin snickered.

“Don’t make me knock you back out,” Chrom sighed, turning away. “I’ll wake the others. We can’t stay here forever or we’ll never figure out where we are.”

Robin snickered a little, prompting the Exalt to turn back to him with a questioning look.

“Nothing, nothing,” Robin said, waving him off. “Just thinking that I promised Lucina I’d only be gone a few weeks. Now we’re here, with no idea where ‘here’ is and no idea how to get home. She’s gonna kill me.”

Chrom smirked, shaking his head. “I think that’s the least of your worries right now.”

“C’mon, you know Luce,” Robin laughed.

“I know she’ll be more worried about you than anything else,” Chrom said.

“Yeah,” Robin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Didn’t you say something about waking up the-”

“Master! Master you have awakened! Argh, my aching blood! We were so worried you would sleep through the ages!”

Robin and Chrom both winced as Owain started shouting his usual jargon, glancing over at the blonde boy standing in the middle of the Shepherds camp with a big happy smile on his face, oblivious to the glares he was getting from the people he’d just woken up.

“Never mind,” Robin sighed.

* * *

The next few days passed as a blur to Robin. Not that there was any way to tell how long they had been in this dead world without sunset or sunrise. Time seemed to stand still, the crimson sun never moving from its solitary position in the sky, the gloom never even slightly abating. The mood was muted as the Shepherds travelled, the stronger members carrying bundles of salvage taken from the ruins of the Mages’ Tower’s observatory. None of them had taken supplies beyond the usual handful of vullenaries and waterskins that they would usually bring on a mission; an amateur mistake on Robin’s part, but the fact that it was Ylisstol, the center of the entire Haildom, that was being attacked had made him sloppy. Fortunately they had a little food to go around; Vaike had stuffed his pockets with jerky before they had left the caravan and Gaius always had his sweets stash, even if he was reluctant to part with it. Maribelle, inexplicably, had a container of tea biscuits, too. Cherche had offered a bag full of ‘wyvern treats’, but Robin had opted to save those for when they grew desperate. Whatever they were…

Because there was no day-night cycle the Shepherds walked until they were tired, then slept for a few hours and continued walking. They hardly spoke, even the usually verbose Vaike trudging along silently most of the day. Galle occasionally muttered under his breath, cursing the terrain and pretty much everything else he set his eyes on. It reminded Robin of the sacking of Themis during the first war with Plegia, when they had been forced to walk through the forest for nearly a week with no supplies. Except this wasn’t a beautiful Ylissean forest. They still had no idea where they were, nor where they were going.

Of Clarus there had been no sign. Ita had found footprints heading away from the ruins of the observatory on the first day, apparently, but they had stopped inexplicably about a hundred meters from their arrival site. There had been no blood, no signs of a scuffle in the dust, nothing. It was as if Clarus had simply vanished.

A few times Robin looked to the cracked ring on his finger, cursing himself for abusing the teleporting ring when he had first taken it from Excellus. There was no sure way to tell if the ring would have been powerful enough to return them all to Ylisse five years ago, but it definitely couldn’t now. It had maybe another three or four uses left, if Robin could gauge these things correctly, and he wasn’t in a hurry to find out what happened if the magic suddenly stopped mid-teleport.

On the third ‘day’ of their trek through the dead landscape the Shepherds finally found something in the distance. A small dark shape on the horizon. With no better plans they began to head towards the shape, the shadow eventually resolving itself as the start of what appeared to be a mountain range of some sort.

“Well, at least it’s high ground,” Chrom said optimistically. “I’m sure we’ll be able to figure out where we are or at least find some sign of other people from up there.”

“And if those people aren’t friendly?” Basilio asked pointedly.

“We can’t think like that,” Chrom said empathetically. “We have to believe that they can at least tell us where to find water.”

“Just don’t get your hopes up, boy,” Basilio said seriously. “Harsh land like this, any people living in it are going to be pretty mistrusting.”

Chrom didn’t say anything, simply pursing his lips and continuing to march. Robin found it amazing that after all these years the Exalt still held so fast to his sister’s ideologies. Of course, Robin mused, he wasn’t one to talk when he’d named his own daughter after the previous Exalt, but still… He silently agreed with Basilio. At best the tactician expected any locals to ignore them, at worst outright attack them. A few of the others clearly also held his beliefs, Galle, Tharja and Ita all on guard as they tromped through the dusty wastelands.

Arya was hard to get a read on for the older tactician, though. She spent much of her time watching Olivia, trying to study the dancer’s every movement. It reminded Robin of when he’d spotted Noire doing the same thing with Tharja when they had been in Valm, but the girl’s lack of concern for their predicament was beginning to make him a little worried. He was concerned that she was beginning to place a little too much trust in her teacher and the Shepherds to get them out of this situation, something Robin needed to address.

So later that day when they came to the foot of the first of the mountains and the ground was steadily sloping upwards and Chrom called a halt, Robin decided to put his plan into motion.

“Alright, we’ll need a few scouts to head up the mountain to check the surroundings from the high ground,” the Exalt declared. “Any volunteers?”

“Actually, Chrom,” Robin spoke up, stepping forward, “I’ve been thinking about that. I’d say the best candidates are Owain, Ita and Arya.”

Owain nodded, practically brimming with excitement while Ita huffed and crossed her arms, but Arya flinched as her name was called.

“Is that your professional opinion?” Chrom asked. Clearly the fact that they were all from the Shepherd group that had been travelling with Robin for the past year hadn’t escaped the Exalt, but Robin just nodded in response.

“Ita is a natural hunter, and Owain is, well, his father’s son. If he can keep his mouth shut he’s actually a pretty good tracker,” Robin explained. “And Arya has certain… skills from her time in Themis. Namely she’s quiet.”

“It’s called theivin’, Bubbles,” Gaius supplied. “Heck, if you hadn’t claimed her as your apprentice she’d probably be mine by now.”

Maribelle clearly bristled at the revelation that the girl had been a thief in her city, but held her tongue. It probably wouldn’t be easy for the magistrate and the cousin of the current Duke to get along with the former thief now, but that would be a problem for later. Much later, given the list of issues they were already facing.

“Look, she’s still my student and this is a good chance for her to get some experience,” Robin persisted.

“Alright, alright, you have yet to steer us wrong,” Chrom placated.

“Well, actually…” Gaius started, being silenced when Robin slammed his elbow into the thief’s ribs.

“Arya, Owain, Ita, you’re up,” Robin said, ignoring the gasping thief as he doubled over. “We’ll wait here. If something goes wrong Owain knows the signal.”

The blonde boy in question stepped forward, a huge grin on his face as he placed his fist over his chest and opened his mouth, hesitating when Chrom spoke.

“And Owain. Quietly, please,” the Exalt added.

“Yes, Uncle Chrom,” Owain nodded, seemingly deflating a little.

Arya gave Galle a sort of pleading look, but the older Plegian just shrugged, turning away. “You have your orders. I’m not dragging myself up that hill for no reason.”

“You’ll be fine,” Robin told her. “Just follow Owain and do what he does. Just… quieter.”

Arya nodded, taking a deep breath and steeling herself as she turned with Owain and Ita towards the mountain. This would be the first time she’d gone on a mission without either her friends or her teachers; the first time she’d done anything without her safety net since agreeing to be Robin’s apprentice. She could do this. It was a simple scouting mission.

“I can do this,” Arya whispered to herself as the trio started climbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my strongest chapter ever, but meh. It’s really just a bridging chapter.


	22. Chapter 22

As Arya climbed up the hill behind Owain and Ita she was surprised to come to the realization that she wasn’t actually nervous or scared. Instead she’d slipped into what she’d heard her teachers describe as ‘mission time’, where all other superfluous thoughts were pushed aside.

Even now, after a year spent travelling with him, Arya found it amazing how the loud, brash, easygoing Owain could switch so suddenly into a silent wraith, slipping from shadow to shadow without making so much as a sound with a concentrated frown on his face. Ita, too, padded ahead of them silent as a light wind, her nose twitching slightly as she tested scents and made sure the way was clear for her allies. Beside them Arya felt woefully inept. After all of her years living as a thief and an informant in the Themisian slums Arya was adept at not being seen when she didn’t want to be. But she had grown in the last year, thanks to Robin and Lucina and Brady and Fae all taking such good care of her, and her larger body was sometimes alien to her. Her longer limbs reacted minutely slower due to their size, her center of gravity was changing now that she was actually developing breasts, she was taller, her hips slightly wider… it was frustrating, that she couldn’t move like she used to, but Lucina had simply smiled knowingly when she’d brought her complaints to the older woman, promising her that she would get used to an adult body with time. But time, Arya contemplated, was not something they had an abundance of right now.

Her foot rose a fraction of a second too slow, the rough leather of the bottom of her boot brushing a stone. A barely perceptible sound, like a leaf falling to the forest floor. But still Owain hesitated, and Ita’s ears twitched, her perpetual scowl deepening.

_Stupid, clumsy girl,_ Arya berated herself, blushing with shame before sucking in a slow breath and resolving to do better.

They continued in this fashion up the hill for some time, scaling the rocky terrain silently yet quickly, Ita leading as the two humans followed behind her. To her credit Arya didn’t lag behind and didn’t make another mistake. They eventually climbed up onto a high ridge, Owain reaching down to clasp Arya’s hand and help haul her up while Ita perched near the edge, the rocks sharp as knives beneath their feet, squinting into the darkness.

The hill had been a welcome reprieve from the endless dusty landscape, but the desolate, rocky peak was simply more of the same. Only harder, as if the dust had collected and solidified. Numerous times Arya had almost sliced her hands open on jagged edges, prompting her to wrap her hands in cloth to protect them like Owain had. Ita didn’t even seem to notice the blood on her hands. However even on the rocky hill they hadn’t escaped the perpetual dust. It puffed up in clouds whenever they stepped or moved, almost worse than down on the ground. After only a few minutes the niggling itch in the back of Arya’s throat had grown almost unbearable. The young trainee tactician found herself thinking that hopefully they found a new source of water so she could finally rinse her mouth out. How Ita continued to constantly sniff the air here was beyond her.

“See anything?” Owain asked softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

Ita cocked her head. “It is dark. And the distance is great. But I see… emptiness. Nothing. More sand and dust as far as the horizon.”

The wolf shapeshifter shuddered. Arya could understand how she felt; multiple times during their travels Ita had complained about being ‘a child of the forest’, especially in the Plegian deserts. This would no doubt be a disturbing environment for one so used to the simple beauty of rugged forests.

“No settlements?” Owain persisted. “Landmarks? Flowing water?”

_No people?_ Arya added in her head, too afraid to speak in case she was too loud.

Ita shook her head slightly, the beads in her hair clacking against each other softly.

“No manspawn settlements. No forests… no water… I see… wait.”

Owain and Arya perked up, both instantly staring out at the empty, twilight darkness with renewed hope.

“I see something,” Ita said.

* * *

Robin sat, waiting patiently with the rest of the Shepherds for Owain and his group to return in the little camp that they had set up. Although calling it a ‘camp’ was somewhat generous; all they had done was pile the bags and other luggage they had saved from the ruins in one place and started a small fire to ward off the incessant gloom, which they all now sat around. At some point Basilio had led Vaike and Ricken away as well, claiming ‘water flows downhill’ as they went to search for a source of drinkable water. With an irritated huff Idallia had followed after them, clearly still wary around the Shepherds without her Feroxi benefactor.

A few times they had come across brackish puddles, dregs in old stream beds and dried up lakes, but no one was desperate enough to drink the dark, tainted liquid yet. Robin fervently hoped that Basilio and the others did find something, though; they had run out of water the day before.

He gave a weak cough, catching it in his hand. He shook his head when he removed it from his mouth, discretely wiping the bloody spittle away. There was nothing he could do about it right now, anyway. Maybe once they got away from this blasted hellscape he could talk to Tharja about a curse or a hex to help slow the symptoms…

The tactician was also worried about Ricken; the younger mage had been somewhat taciturn since they had arrived wherever here was. But he had also been the first to volunteer for guard duty, or scouting, or anything really, as if he were trying to make up for his perceived failure at the Mages’ Tower. At least he wasn’t wallowing in his depression; he was trying to overcome it.

Tharja, sitting at his side, suddenly let out a small sigh as she rubbed her injured shoulder beneath her borrowed cloak. There was something strange about the mana in this land, and Maribelle’s healing abilities were greatly diminished. To the point where no one who had been injured by Clarus or their subsequent rough landing was fully recovered, even after her ministrations. Which was worrying, given that her skills had been nothing short of awe-inspiring back during the wars with Plegia and Valm.

“Is it still bugging you?” Robin asked softly.

Tharja glanced up, dark circles around her eyes and grey dust marring her pretty face. Of course at this point none of them looked much better, but the mages had the worst of it. Galle was hardly sleeping, and Femi whimpered like a whipped hound in her own rest. Arya was withdrawn and quiet, and had started stammering again despite all the progress they had made with her confidence. Tharja’s shoulder simply refused to heal, and Robin’s back and neck throbbed painfully where the black cracks had spread. Maribelle had been tired and irritable, snapping at everyone for little or no reason, and Ricken had become withdrawn and quiet. Even Chrom and Owain, descended from Naga’s bloodline, were beginning to feel the ill effects of the tainted mana of this place, both men appearing drawn and tired.

“I will manage,” Tharja said, the corners of her mouth quirking upwards ever-so-slightly in her version of a reassuring smile.

“I have already seen to her three times,” Maribelle snapped hotly from across the small camp. “It is simply phantom pain. All she need do is merely stop seeking attention and the pain will go away.”

Tharja snarled, rising to her feet in a swish of cloak as Maribelle rose to face her, gripping her staff with white knuckles.

“Enough!” Chrom shouted, rising himself and interposing himself between them. “You two have been at each other’s throats since we got here, and I’ve had enough. If you can’t play nice like you did during the wars I will intervene.”

“Tharja, this isn’t like you,” Robin said worriedly, standing, too. “You either, Maribelle. Wait… Maribelle, let me see your face… have you not let Tharja cast the warding hex on you?”

“I will not allow that witch to defile my flesh with her… her filthy malifecarum,” Maribelle growled.

“I would not even if you begged,” Tharja hissed in response. “And I will revel in your pain as you slowly go mad.”

“Ladies,” Chrom growled menacingly.

“Enough of this,” Maribelle sighed, massaging her temples. “I wish for solitude. I will not wander far.”

With that the magistrate turned on her heel and marched into the empty grey darkness, leaving a mystified Chrom and Robin standing with a seething Dark Mage, the rest of the present Shepherds looking on awkwardly. There was a moment of tense silence before Chrom sighed, running a hand through his dirty hair.

“I should follow her,” the Exalt said, beginning to walk after her. “Hold down the fort until I get back.”

After a few moments the darkness had swallowed the Exalt, too, leaving the Shepherds to collectively sigh and wait for one of the, now three, parties to return with news. Robin rounded on Tharja as soon as Chrom’s cape disappeared into the darkness, frowning crossly.

“I expect better from you. What kind of example are you setting for your student?” he said. Her eyes immediately widened, as if she weren’t expecting to be reprimanded. Femi shuffled uncomfortably next to Galle, pointedly looking anywhere else.

“I cannot cast the hex on someone unwilling,” Tharja explained shortly, before giving a small sigh. “Besides, the earlier ones are already wearing off, anyway.”

Galle gave a tired sigh of his own as Femi sucked in a panicked breath, the two mages overhearing Tharja’s statement. A few of the others looked worried, too, but most just remained silent.

“I figured as much,” Robin sighed. “What’s the next step?”

“Acclimatization,” Tharja said, returning to her seat. “We use your power to deflect the worst of the mana poisoning. But…”

“That leaves me undefended, right?” Robin asked softly, crossing his arms.

“Not good enough,” Sully spoke up. “Either we all get your weird little defense hex, or none of us do.”

“Agreed,” Cherche added. “Surely you can do better. We all have faith in you.”

“Well, most of us,” Gaius shrugged with a small grin in the direction Maribelle and Chrom had disappeared in.

“It’s not that simple,” Tharja snapped, her voice sounding far more strained now.

“Bah. That’s why I hate magic,” Sully grunted dismissively.

“Pretend those of us that are actually mages don’t understand either,” Galle said dryly.

“Okay…” Robin shrugged. “Let me make it simple for you. An umbrella keeps you dry in the rain, keeps the sun off you, yeah? Tharja’s suggesting using me as the umbrella.”

“So what, we gotta carry you above us?” Sully asked.

“Metaphorically, Sully,” Robin said with a grin. “Although I won’t be opposed to not having to walk for a while. It means that if she uses me as the catalyst for a spell to divert the poisoned mana from the rest of you, I have to be left out.”

“I could always continue to use the warding hex with the Exalt’s blood on you,” Tharja suggested, absently rubbing at her shoulder again. “It would be better than nothing.”

The group lapsed into silence again, Robin and Tharja both resuming their seats by the fire.

“I don’t like that idea,” Olivia spoke up eventually.

Robin glanced up at her, quirking his brow. The usually timid dancer had a stony look on her face, doing a decent job of glaring the tactician down.

“May I ask why?” Robin prompted.

“You think you’re hiding it, but you’re not,” she said bluntly. “You’re sick. This place, everything that’s happened with Grima’s mana lately, it’s making you sick. You’re weaker than usual. Slower. I know that this place is slowly making us all sick, but it’s been going on longer than we’ve been here, hasn’t it? What… what would this spell end up doing to you? How much worse would it make you?”

Robin reeled, shocked at the dancer’s perceptiveness. He exchanged surprised glances with Tharja, the Dark Mage shocked just as speechless as he was. He’d greatly underestimated Olivia’s perceptiveness. A few of the other Shepherds present turned angry and hurt looks on Robin as well, for good measure.

“Gods, Robin, I thought you had grown out of this…” Cordelia sighed, shaking her head.

“That actually explains a lot,” Gaius muttered.

“How long?” Sully asked angrily.

“It’s been getting worse since Regna Ferox,” Robin sighed. “Before that? Guys, it’s honestly amazing I’ve lived this long. All this stuff with Grima is just… speeding things up.”

“What do you mean… speeding things up?” Cordelia asked slowly.

“I’m saying that by all rights I should have died with Grima,” Robin shrugged, quickly holding up his hands to forestall the denials he knew were coming. “And before you all get upset about it, that’s not me being fatalistic, that’s fact. Simply put, I’m meant to be dead. We still don’t know what killing Grima did to me. I can tell you all now, though, that I don’t have an inkling of resistance to dark magic like I used to. Just being here is poisoning all of you, but it’s killing me.”

“So we need to get out of here,” Sully said. “Find someplace not as… dirty.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Robin nodded. “The faster the better.”

“You’ll get better if we get you someplace less tainted, right?” Olivia asked quietly.

“I hope so,” Robin sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Galle let out a soft groan as he leaned back, settling his weight against the rock Femi was perched on. “This actually explains why you were such a hardass during your lessons. You wanted to get it all crammed into our heads before you…”

The younger man trailed off, his brow furrowing as he looked away. They all lapsed into silence, staring either into the shuddering firelight or into the surrounding darkness. Sully was gritting her teeth, still clearly uncomfortable with an enemy she couldn’t just pummel even after all these years. Cordelia and Olivia both looked downcast, Olivia absently rubbing at the faint line still on her stomach from where that bastard Maris had stabbed her. Gaius unconsciously started patting down his numerous pockets and hiding places, looking for candy that was no longer there. Femi and Tharja exchanged a glance, but the older mage broke eye contact and let out a sigh. Cherche just looked tired, something wholly out of place on the wyvern rider’s usually composed countenance.

They all glanced up as numerous footsteps approached, Chrom leading Maribelle as well as Basilio’s quartet as they re-entered the firelight.

“Look what we found,” the Exalt grinned.

“Yeesh, don’t you all look gloomy,” Basilio snorted, the big man grinning himself. “Well, we found something sure to make all of you smile again. We found potable water.”

* * *

When Arya and her group returned to the Shepherds’ camp she was flushed and out of breath. They had forgone stealth on the return journey, prioritizing speed above all else. Ita had pulled ahead numerous times, the wolf woman’s natural reflexes and dexterity making the descent easier for her than the two humans. Arya’s finely honed athleticism from years avoiding corrupt Themisian City Guards on the streets was put to good use, too, the girl jumping and leaping from crag to crag in a way that Owain simply couldn’t follow. Even if she was being more careful than usual. Ad much to Arya’s secret delight it wasn’t her that slowed them down once the stealth factor was taken away, but Owain instead.

Still, though, the blonde man was hardly sweating by the time they reached the others. Not like her. Finally she was starting to feel the effects of the polluted mana again, Lady Tharja’s hex wearing off. Her head was splitting with a headache that occasionally made her vision blur, but as they slowed at the base of the hill and she caught her breath the pain subsided. If it was this bad for her, though, she could only imagine how hard it was for the other mages who were actually skilled.

As they finally descended to within earshot of the others Owain spoke up, his confident voice carrying and echoing in the still air.

“Uncle Chrom! Uncle Chrom! There’s something coming this way! … Uncle Chrom?”

“They went on ahead, lad. Figured we’d hang around for you, though. Wouldn’t want you gettin’ lost. Even if you are half Lon’qu, you’re still half your mother, and she’s not much of an out-doors type.”

Owain came up short, Ita and Arya joining him a moment later in the remnants of the small camp that had been made. All that remained was a few scuffs, a multitude of footprints in the perpetual dust and the burned-out ashes of the fire they had had. Arya noticed that the Shepherds had even been so thorough as to have taken the logs that hadn’t fully burned, leaving nothing but useless charcoal in a small pile.

Basilio grinned at them from one of the low rocks around their former campsite, his plates glinting in the dim pseudo-twilight. His toothy grin was a gash of white in the darkness, the older man blending perfectly. Arya realized that at some point he’d coated his armor and leathers in the ash-like dust that was everywhere. Beside the older man Idallia sat, arms and legs both crossed as she cast the scouting trio a quick glare out of the corner of her eye before going back to surveying the ample nothingness surrounding them. Her clothes were far cleaner, but still she had dusted down what few pieces of armor that she wore.

“Took you long enough,” Idallia muttered, looking away from them.

“Where are the other manspawn?” Ita snapped, crossing her own arms.

“We found water,” Basilio said, matter-of-factly. “They’re probably already there, filling their canteens and skins. But I’m a little more worried about what you lot found. Details. Now, boy.”

Owain nodded. “All we could tell was something was coming towards the hills. A caravan of some sort, coming in from the east. We couldn’t get any more details than that.”

Basilio cursed under his breath, slowly rising to his feet with both hands propped on his knees. The old Khan made Arya think of some elder god, slow and ponderous, but deadly when provoked; an unstoppable and unbreakable force of nature.

“Whoever they are, they’re probably headed for the water, too. Not much else out here worth anything. Even the high ground was useless, from the sounds of things.”

Owain nodded and Ita simply spat dusty phlegm onto the ground, seemingly bored with the conversation already. Arya stepped forward hesitantly, feeling like she had to say something.

“N-not totally useless, Khan Basilio, sir,” she said, struggling to meet the giant man’s one-eyed gaze.

“Oh? The runt talks?” the Khan said with a good-natured grin. “Out with it, girl!”

“I-in my… in my head I made a map of the surrounding area’s landscape,” she explained. “Like… uh, like Sir Robin taught me to. With a quill and some parchment I may be able to give us… a workable… map…”

Arya trailed off, glancing down and withering under the intense stares from the older Shepherds and Khans. After a moment Owain let out a groan, slapping himself in the forehead as Basilio gave a thundering laugh. His massive hand almost covered Arya’s entire back as he patted her on the back, almost throwing her off her feet in his mirth.

“I can’t believe I forgot to do that,” Owain muttered. “Dad’ll never let me hear the end of this…”

“So don’t tell him,” Idallia deadpanned.

“If he don’t, I will!” Basilio continued to laugh, before finally calming. “Ah, thanks, girl. After the last few days I needed that laugh. Now, let’s hurry and catch up with the others. They need to know we have company.”

Without further warning the big old man was gone in a swirl of dust, Idallia heaving another sigh and following after him. Only a slight flick of her tail betraying her annoyance Ita followed, leaving Owain and Arya to bring up the rear.

She hurried along beside the blonde man, occasionally casting him curious glances. Like Exalt Chrom, Owain had forgone the hex that Tharja had placed on most of the others to protect them from the poisoned mana of this place. From what she could tell, he wasn’t feeling the ill effects at all, just like his uncle, the Exalt. Numerous times during the last year Arya had heard Lucina call him ‘cousin’, and though she had never seen his brand, the Mark of Naga that all Ylissean royalty carried, the results now spoke for themselves. Even if he never did act like royalty…

“Feeling okay?” Owain asked, snapping Arya’s thoughts out of her head.

“Uh, yeah,” she managed as they jogged at the back of the group.

“You were pretty quiet,” he went on. “I was getting worried.”

“Weren’t we… on… a stealth mission?” she asked slowly.

Owain’s face was blank for a moment before a bashful grin spread and he gave a small chuckle. “Right. We were. And you did well.”

“Were we hunting we would be going hungry,” Ita called over her shoulder, her stronger-than-human hearing letting her hear their entire conversation.

Arya let a small sigh out her nose, looking down but refusing to let the weight of her words drag her down. Owain had said she’d done well, and he was the one that had been leading the mission. Even if she’d messed up a few times, she had performed better than most people would have, and she’d even gotten to show off a little on the way down. Risking a glance at the blonde man again she felt a small spark of relief as she realized he was shooting a glare at the back of Ita’s head.

“Ignore her,” he muttered. “You did well, and I’ll be sure to tell Robin as much. But like he always says, ‘just because you did well doesn’t mean you can’t do better’.”

Arya nodded, a satisfied smile rising to her face.

* * *

By the time they joined Robin and the other Shepherds Arya was panting and sweating freely, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth from dehydration. She honestly didn’t care how she looked anymore, more fixated on getting to the water that they had apparently found. A quick glance at the back of the group showed that she wasn’t the only one struggling, Khan Idallia lagging behind and shooting glares at the backs of those in front of her. Their eyes met for a moment and Arya looked away from the older woman, unable to hold her gaze. It had been painfully similar to Maris’.

They came across Vaike first, the shirtless man perched atop a high rock sitting cross-legged with his axe across his lap.

“Look sharp, might have company soon,” Basilio said gruffly.

“Friendly?” Vaike asked, surprisingly business-like.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” the Khan said, barely sparing the other man a glance.

They followed Basilio behind the rock that Vaike was perched on, the axeman seemingly scrutinizing the wasteland around them with a keener eye now. The old warrior led them through a small canyon of jagged rocks, Arya eying the sharp edges carefully and clenching fists around where she’d scratched her hands on her earlier hike. They emerged into a small clearing, filled with the other Shepherds. Arya instantly zeroed in on Robin and Galle, her teacher sitting towards the back of the space with her friend and the two Dark Mages. However, more pressing was the small waterfall pooling in a deep reservoir, which most of the other Shepherds were busily crowding around. It wasn’t clean and pure by any means, but it looked fresher than anything else they had found, and even the air in the little hollow was cooler.

Owain let out an excited whoop as he rushed past them, straight towards the source of water. Ita followed close behind him, albeit silently, and bodily shoved Gaius out of the way to dunk her entire head into the cool liquid. The only thing stopping Arya from following the shape-shifter’s lead was the chorus of irritated Shepherds admonishing the wolf-woman, who just ignored them as she shook the sodden auburn locks out of her face with a fang-filled grin.

“Much better,” Ita practically purred.

Arya settled for shaking her head, desperately trying to suppress her grin and the urge to follow Ita’s example. The trainee-tactician drifted closer to the pool as Basilio let Idallia to their small cache of supplies to report to Exalt Chrom, intent on at least getting a fresh drink for herself.

“She’s lucky that she’s Robin’s problem,” a voice said from Arya’s shoulder. “We stuck Vaike on guard duty for doing the same thing.”

Glancing up, Arya realized that Ylisse’s Wing-Commander herself was addressing her. Arya gulped and nodded, totally at a loss with how to deal with the older Shepherd. In addition to the fact that she was Ylissean, Cordelia still managed to look absolutely striking despite the dust and grime caked to them all, too, making Arya even more aware of just how plain she was in comparison. Cordelia smiled, though, handing her a waterskin.

“Here, drink from this and give me yours. I’ll refill it while I’m doing the others,” the red-haired knight said.

“N-no! No, that’s, that’s okay, ma’am, I can… I’ll do it… ah…” Arya stammered.

Cordelia just chuckled and shook her head, a thin and deceptively strong hand flashing out to snatch the empty waterskin from Arya’s pouch before she could even react. “Drink slowly, okay? If you drink it all at once you’ll make yourself sick. And you should check in with Robin, too.”

Arya nodded somewhat numbly as the lithe pegasus knight walked off towards the spring, leaving her standing dumbstruck for a moment before the persistent ache in her throat brought her back to reality. Forcing herself into taking small, measured sips from the waterskin she headed over the where Robin was sitting with the others.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she got closer, the perpetual twilight doing nothing to hide the fact that Robin didn’t look very good. He seemed pale, almost a sickly grey color, and his eyes had large dark circles around them. His condition seemed to be deteriorating faster and faster to Arya, but she was no cleric. She barely even qualified as a mage.

Still, though, once Galle nudged the older tactician in the shoulder and he looked up Robin’s face split into a genuine smile when he spotted her.

“There’s my star pupil,” he said, his voice sounding tired.

“Technically, she’s your only pupil right now,” Galle drawled.

“Details, details,” Robin chuckled. “How’d it go?”

“We spotted something coming this way,” Arya reported.

This seemed to get everyone’s attention, even Tharja and Femi freezing and glancing up from their spellbooks now.

“Friendly?” Robin asked.

“Not sure,” Arya admitted. “But they’re coming this way, and they’ll be here soon.”

As if on cue Chrom’s clear voice echoed around the small grotto, bouncing off the walls and doubling back in a strange echo that made Arya slightly nervous for some reason. “Shepherds, gear up! We have company! Robin?”

“Everyone who wasn’t on one of the scouting missions or isn’t wounded, form up weapons free,” the tactician said, rising effortlessly to his feet despite his apparent fatigue. “Scouting parties and wounded, finish filling up the waterskins and get the supplies together in case we need to make a quick escape. Arya, Femi, you’re with me. Stay close.”

The young apprentice mage jumped a little at the sound of her name, looking back to Tharja for confirmation before clapping her spellbook closed and moving to Arya’s side. She looked dreadfully nervous, but then she hadn’t had the experiences that Arya had in the last few years to steel her.

The rest of the group burst into activity, readying weapons or hurrying to fulfill their assigned tasks. Amazingly, the Shepherds in the rearguard automatically moved to tasks without having to be told or even communicate amongst each other. They set about gathering up the waterskins their allies had dropped the moment Robin’s orders had been given while others began to bundle up the meagre supplies they still had. Then there were those who would be meeting with the locals, whoever or whatever they were, who were quickly and efficiently checking weapons and armor.

Barely a few more minutes went by before a strange, warbling bird cry echoed down to them from where Vaike was on watch.

“Out of time,” Robin growled, his eyes narrowing. “Girls, stay close. Let’s go.”

Arya and Femi both hurried to keep up with him as he began to stride back to the opening of the small hollow with the rest of the Shepherds. For some reason Arya glanced over her shoulder, surprised to see Ita ignoring orders and following behind them, her long auburn hair still wet and dripping. She flashed another fang-filled grin at Arya, who couldn’t help but grin back. It did strangely make her feel better to know that the wolf-woman would be watching her back.

* * *

Basilio frowned from beside the pile of refuse they were joking calling ‘supplies’, crossing his arms and watching the majority of their group leaving the small spring. From beside him Idallia looked up, sneering a little.

“Not following the fight?” she asked.

Basilio shook his head. “I can follow orders,” he grinned. “When I feel like it.”

Idallia huffed, going back to tying the lengths of wood they had salvaged together for transport.

The old Khan had another reason for staying behind, though. He was tired, and he knew that his charge was, too. Idallia talked tough, but she was still a pampered merchant-princess who had no idea what kind of hardships she was in for if this went the way he was expecting it to. And he’d never admit it, but he wasn’t as young as he used to be, either.

None of them were immortal. Hell, Flavia had shown that herself, and Basilio had honestly expected her to outlive him by a good margin.  

“Hello? Khan Basilio!”

The Khan resisted the urge to jump, his gaze snapping down to Idallia. The merchant had her own arms crossed now, glaring up at him. It was almost cute the way she thought her glare was threatening.

“Are you even paying attention?” she snapped.

“I am now. What’s so important you have to disturb an old man his musings?” Basilio asked with a sarcastic grin.

“Give. Me. Your. Waterskin,” Idallia ground out. “I’ll go fill it while I do mine.”

The older man couldn’t help but smirk. “That sounds almost like you’d be doing me a favor.”

“Calculated self-interest,” Idallia corrected him. “You’re the only verified ally I have here. And I get the feeling that this… whatever this is… is going to take a little longer than just a couple of days.”

Basilio nodded. She was smarter than she looked. Although, that was a given considering she’d basically run the Southern Merchant Council through her own little hoops despite her young age. He pulled the empty waterskin off his belt and tossed it to her in an underhanded throw.

“I may be the only friend you’ve got here, but the Shepherds won’t just abandon you,” Basilio pointed out.

“I’d rather not take that chance,” Idallia muttered, narrowing her eyes for a moment before moving to the spring.

Basilio was left alone with his own thoughts for barely a moment before Lon’qu’s brat appeared before him in a blur of yellow tunic and blonde hair. How the boy was such a good tracker despite his bright clothes was almost as great a mystery as how that surly bastard Lon’qu had managed to bag him that spritely little Ylissean princess.

“Khan Basilio, are we really going to just sit here and wait?” Owain asked in a huff.

“Yes,” the old man rumbled, arching one brow.

This simple answer brought Owain up short. The blonde boy’s slack face and confused eyes actually brought a grin to Basilio’s face as he slapped Owain on the back. “We got orders, boy. Get these supplies together.”

“And what will you be doing?” Owain asked, almost pouting and looking exactly like his mother.

Basilio just grinned again, crossing his arms and sinking to a hip. “Following orders.”

* * *

Robin watched with the rest of the Shepherds as the plume of dust from whatever was coming drew steadily closer to them, feeling a small sense of trepidation. They had no way of telling what this was, no intel, no scouting reports, no local knowledge… he was going in blind, something he hadn’t done in years, and it made him uncomfortable. He couldn’t stop a small frown from making its way onto his face as they waited for the inevitable. He was confident that the Shepherds could handle just about anything that the world could throw at them at this point, but still he felt nervous.

Eventually the dust plume resolved itself into a small train of caravans as they came closer, ragged-looking horses and figures sitting atop them and the carts they pulled visible through the cloud, heading directly for the Shepherds. Or, Robin reasoned, the water. At the very least he could be confident they weren’t Risen. While Risen would use their own undead mounts he’d never even heard of them using vehicles of any kind. 

“Steady, Shepherds” Chrom ordered reassuringly. “We won’t act as aggressors, but we won’t roll over and die, either. Be ready.”

Robin had to admit that the Exalt looked almost excited at the prospect of this unknown group. A few of the others around them seemed similarly inclined; clearly their isolation had been taking a toll on a few of the more social of the Shepherds.

“Should we… I don’t know, wave them down or something?” Robin asked the Exalt. “Let them know we’re here?”

Chrom seemed to ponder this for a moment, eyes distant as he watched the ever-approaching cloud of dust. “What was the identifier for Ylissean forces during the Liberation of Valm?”

“Blue flames,” Robin answered without a moment’s thought.

Mages had been used to identify the various groups on the battlefields during the fighting away from the Shepherds; a mage would shoot into the air blue flames for Ylissean or their allied Feroxi forces, red sparks for Dynast or Valmese Resistance soldiers. Or that had been the plan, anyway. When the Dynasts had betrayed them at Fortress Steiger identification had become far simpler; run like hell from everyone.

“Let’s take a chance,” Chrom decided. “Let them know we’re here.”

“Galle, would you like to do the honors?” Robin asked over his shoulder.

The Plegian boy stiffened, frowning. “I’m actually more of a wind mage…”

“Oh for Grima’s… I’ll do it,” Femi declared. “Blue flames, right?”

“Right,” Chrom snickered. “Just shoot them a few feet into the air so they see us.”

Femi nodded, the young Dark Mage pushing through the crowd of Shepherds to stand at their forefront. She took a moment to adjust the collar of her cloak before taking a deep breath and holding her hand in the air. Making magical flames was a simple spell, one of the beginner-level ones that didn’t require a spellbook if a mage was worth their salt. It was when one wanted to put stopping power behind the spell that a catalyst was required, and adding strength via a spellbook was the easiest way. Femi closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them a small fountain of brilliant blue flame shot from her hand into the sky. She held it there for a moment before making a fist and cutting the spell off, retreating back through the Shepherds to Robin’s side.

“It was a little more difficult than I expected to alter the colour for the first time,” she admitted, almost sheepishly.

“You did well,” Chrom complimented. “They can’t possibly have missed that.”

“Not like they weren’t coming right for us to begin with,” Gaius mumbled.

“But now they know we’re here,” Robin pointed out. “So now, if they’re friendly, they won’t be as inclined to attack us.”

“And if they’re not friendly we just gave our position away,” Galle added sourly.

“It’s always half-empty with you,” Robin chuckled.

“If they’re not friendly, like I said, we won’t just roll over,” Chrom assured the younger tactician. “Shepherds! Form up on me!”

The Shepherds didn’t have to wait much longer, the first of the beaten up old wagons stopping a few meters back and disgorging what appeared to be a squad of soldiers into the gloom. Robin tensed a little, recognizing the outline of Valmese armor, but then froze. He’d spotted Chon’sinian armor. And… Chengshi-style armor, too.

“What’s going on?” he muttered.

“Sir?” Arya asked softly.

“Stay here,” Robin ordered, pushing through to the front of the group with Chrom.

“Notice something?” the Exalt asked.

“Maybe,” Robin sighed. “Hope I’m wrong.”

The soldiers approached slowly but without reservation, some limping and some swaying dangerously as they neared. A few towards the front of the group drew weapons, but the majority just shuffled, almost mindlessly, towards them. For a moment Robin was worried that these were some new form of Risen, and raised his hand to shoulder height. He hesitated, though, and turned to wave Femi forward. She nodded, moving up and lighting a small magical flame above her fingertips.

And as one, the ragged soldiers in tattered uniforms and broken armor shrunk away from the light.

“Are you human?” Robin called out to them.

“Are you?” one of the soldiers called back.

Robin gave Femi a nod and she reduced the flame above her hand, dimming the light a little. A few of the wretched people edged closer, shielding their eyes from the light while still trying to get a good look at the Shepherds. A man in battered Valmese officer’s armor stepped forward, lowering his arm but still squinting at the light of the flames. A few more men wearing little more than rags and scraps of old armor moved to his back, the majority staying just outside of the light of Femi’s spell. He counted as least thirty shapes in the gloom outside the sphere of light, and there may well have been many more near the wagons.

Chrom stepped forward, too, almost twice the other man’s size.

It took Robin to realize that Chrom seemed so big because the Valmese man was thin to the point of emaciation. Even when they had picked up Arya in Themis she had looked healthier than this group. Painfully thin hands trembled as they struggled to hold weapons up, many swaying at the effort or simply using their weapons to hold themselves up.

“Greetings,” Chrom said slowly. “You understand me?”

“Yeah, you’re speaking the common tongue,” the Valmese said, as if Chrom were an idiot.

Robin had to smirk at the surprised look on the Exalt’s face. Clearly it had been a long time since anyone besides him had spoken to Chrom that way. The Exalt rallied, though, clearing his throat and smiling.

“We are lost travelers, trying to figure out where we are. Would you help us?”

The man’s brow furrowed for a moment as he studied the Shepherds arrayed before him. Robin expected no trouble from them; in fact it appeared as if a strong breeze would knock most of the soldiers over.

“You kind of have the water hostage,” the man reasoned slowly. “So sure, we’ll help. But what help could we give?”

“Maps,” Robin said, stepping forward now. “And information. Start with where we are.”

The man glanced at the tactician for a moment before shrugging. “You’re in what’s left of Valm. Where are you from? One of the Eastern nations?”

“You could say that,” Robin nodded slowly.

“You say ‘what’s left of Valm’,” Chrom added. “Do you mean Imperial Valm?”

“I mean ‘all of Valm’,” the soldier responded.

“What could have happened to reduce the entire continent to this wasteland?” Chrom asked aghast.

The man looked at Chrom with a disbelieving expression, mirrored by every man behind him. A sinking feeling formed in Robin’s stomach at this; whatever had happened had happened a long time ago. It was common knowledge by this point, at least among these people.

He almost didn’t want to hear their answer.

“The Fell Dragon happened,” the soldier said. “A… long time ago. Where have you lot been all these years that you don’t know?”

* * *

Robin trudged along beside one of the Valmese carts, absently watching the featureless countryside pass by as he walked. Arya and Femi were still following behind him, and Galle was walking at his shoulder. Tharja and Ricken were riding in the cart that had the Shepherds meagre supplies in it with Maribelle and those Valmese that were too exhausted to walk anymore. The rest of the Shepherds were spread out among the convoy, helping out wherever and however they could, their comparative strength and vitality making them an unexpected boon to the exhausted survivors.

The Valmese ‘Captain’ that had spoken to them, a tired man named Victor that was leading the group simply because he was the only one among them that had survived since the last trek to the wellspring, had taken the Shepherds in without comment or complaint. Apparently it had been common at one point to come across wandering bands of refugees, but had become far less so in recent years. A few of the Valmese regarded the Shepherds with curious looks, but none were outwardly hostile. For all intents and purposes it seemed as if they were too exhausted for hostility.

The carts strained and creaked under their precious loads, the survivor soldiers having drained the wellspring dry to fill the empty barrels on each cart with water. Apparently their leaders were planning an exodus, and this was to be one of the last steps before they took the remaining civilians and everyone else and made for the Eastern Kingdoms.

Valm was gone. Dead. Walhart and the Imperials were gone, leaving naught but scraps behind. Precious few from Chengshi had survived Liung’s valiant last stand. Even Chon’sin and the other smaller dynasts hadn’t been spared.

Because this was one of the myriad futures, one where they had failed. One where the Fell Dragon had been victorious.

The thought still made Robin feel numb.

Owain had taken it hardest. He’d put on a brave front, just like his mother always did, but the blonde man had been very shaken by the news. Most of the Shepherds had stoically accepted this information. A slight downturn of Tharja’s lips, a quiet sigh from Cherche, Ricken glancing off into the distance. A few of the others had hidden behind false bravado. Vaike had almost seemed excited by the prospect of fighting their greatest enemy again, and Sully had grinned that predatory smile she got when she knew a strong opponent was coming. But Robin knew that neither of their hearts were in it.

The newcomers to their group had just seemed lost. Unsure how to handle such an unbelievable story. Arya had kept looking back and forth between the Valmese man, Victor, and Robin, not even trying to disguise her fear. Similarly, a quaking Femi had looked to her own teacher for guidance, seemingly finding solace in Tharja’s unshakable bearing. Ita had seemed to be the least effected out of everyone, simply growling and spitting out more dusty phlegm.

Galle…

“This is just freaking perfect…” the Plegian boy muttered for the umpteenth time, trudging along beside Robin. “Just perfect… we get out of this and I’m retiring… screw being a tactician if this is the kind of crap I’ve gotta deal with…”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ll make Mari a lovely house husband, right Arya?” Robin said with a sidelong grin.

“W-what?” Arya stammered, looking up suddenly.

“Imagine Galle in a little pink, frilly apron,” Robin snickered.

Arya turned her head to look at the glowering older boy for a moment before she snorted, struggling to hold back her laughter.

“Does he get a little feather duster?” Femi added from behind them.

“Okay, I know what you’re doing here,” Galle seethed. “You’re playing ‘distraction’. Well… damn. It worked. Stop doing that!”

Arya and Femi both giggled at Robin’s innocent look, the white-haired tactician not being able to help it and laughing along with them as Galle sighed and shook his head. Robin’s breath hitched, though, and he descended into a fit of coughing so hard he doubled over for a moment. It passed as quickly as it came, though, and he straightened, grinning like usual in the face of the concerned looks he was getting.

“It’s this damned dust. It’s driving me nuts,” he lied.

None of the three younger travelers looked convinced, but after a moment of awkward silence Galle gave another sigh, glaring at his former teacher.

“You say I’d be a good house husband, but what about you? Lucina seems to have you pretty whipped…”

“That’s ‘Lady Lucina’ to you,” Robin mumbled, looking away as a slight blush crept up his cheeks.

* * *

Chrom glanced over his shoulder at where Robin’s little group were laughing again, a small smile of his own alighting on his face. The Exalt rode with Victor on the lead wagon, pulled by a mangy looking pair of horses. Despite this, though, the horses pulling the wagons looked to be in better shape than the people riding on them.

“Well, there’s something we don’t hear that much anymore,” Victor sighed, following the Exalt’s gaze.

Chrom nodded, stopping himself before he could say ‘I can scarcely imagine what you’ve been through’. The truth of the matter was after hearing about it from his own time-travelling daughters and their friends he could picture it quite easily. But still, that didn’t mean he’d wanted to be proven right about his imagined future.

“Tell me, Victor,” Chrom said, facing forwards again. “What do you know of Ylisse’s current situation?”

The Valmese man shrugged. “Communication broke down after the Day of Revival. Haven’t heard anything in more than a decade.”

“Yet your leaders would risk everything to go there?” Chrom asked.

“Gotta be better than here,” Victor scoffed. “Besides, from the look of you lot I’d say that the Eastern Kingdoms are just the haven we need.”

“I would not be so sure,” Chrom nodded, both men falling silent again.

The blue haired man watched the unchanging, twilight countryside pass them by, alone with his own thoughts before Victor spoke again.

“You know, these horses? They’re worth more than I am,” he said, his tone conversational.

“That’s horrible!” Chrom said.

Victor just shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s a big deal that they let me take them. Me, a nobody, when Lady Say’ri herself was chomping at the bit to-”

“Wait, Empress Say’ri is your leader?” Chrom asked quickly.

“Yeah… one of them, anyway,” Victor said slowly. “Although I’d advise against calling her ‘Empress’. She, ah, doesn’t like it when people call her that anymore, on account of Chon’sin being a pile of ashes.”

Chrom looked down, his expression stricken for his friend and fellow ruler. After all the fighting and pain she had suffered to free her homeland, only to have it reduced to ashes…

“What of… Exalt Chrom?” he asked slowly.

Victor shrugged again. “Last word we got outta Ylisse was he was dead and his kid was taking the throne. That was, I dunno, fifteen-ish years ago? When Lady Say’ri returned with news that Grima had awakened. I… kinda wish more of us had listened to her warnings back then.”

Chrom nodded, lost in thought as he processed this new information. Clearly, this wasn’t their version of the future. It was possible that Robin’s spell had somehow transported them to Lucina’s future, where she and the others had travelled back from. Although it was also possible that Robin had accidentally spirited them away to some alternate future altogether. Judging from the state of what he’d seen of Valm this future was far, far worse off than even the one Lucina and the others had come from. Chrom’s musings were interrupted, though, when Victor let out a long sigh.

“Man, you guys are so lucky,” he muttered, looking away from the Exalt. “I’d honestly forgotten what ‘beautiful’ is supposed to look like.”

It was Chrom’s turn to follow the other man’s gaze this time, smirking a little when he realized Victor was leering at Cordelia.

“She has a husband,” Chrom deadpanned.

“Ah, don’t they all?” Victor grumbled, facing forward again. “Comes a point when everyone starts to look the same here. Thin and dirty and desperate. Hope we get away before you and your friends have to deal with that.”

Chrom nodded, silently agreeing with the Valmese man.

* * *

By Robin’s estimation they had been travelling for three or four more days, but it was still hard to tell. The Valmese survivors, for that’s all he could think of them as now, were far less regular than the Shepherds had been in their travel. They stopped when the horses wouldn’t go on anymore; sometimes that was a few hours, sometimes much longer. Many of them barely slept, and when they did they whimpered miserably in their sleep. Many woke screaming, but it was the ones who were totally silent, both awake and asleep, that made Robin worry the most. Their eyes, when they would meet his gaze, were empty. Devoid of not only hope, but of any emotion.

He had to wonder just how long these people could continue to live with Grima’s taint. It was a malign influence, it ate away at the soul. And these people had been forced to suffer through that hell for decades now. Some of the younger ones, he imagined, hadn’t even seen the sky before.

Such was Grima’s power, though. He was a parasite, a sickness, an unnatural force that should never have been. Yet the same could also be said about himself, he thought with a rueful chuckle. What was he if not an unnatural entity, eking out a meagre existence now that Grima was gone from his world? He shook these thoughts from his head as soon as they would form, though. He had a good life in Regna Ferox, a life with his wife and daughter. There was nothing meagre about that.

But these Valmese survivors, they had nothing left. Nothing but the slim hope they could find a new life in Ylisse. Or whatever was left of Ylisse. Chrom had shared his musings with the rest of the Shepherds after talking with the Valmese man Victor, and Robin had to guiltily agree with his sentiments. In trying to save Ylisse in their own world he’d surely sent them to the forgotten future that they hadn’t been able to save.

Beside him Idallia coughed, seemingly having as much trouble with the dust as he was. While she wasn’t his favorite person in the world, right now he would take what distraction he could. Without thinking Robin held out his own waterskin to the woman.

“I do not need your charity,” she snapped, her voice raspy.

“You already drank all of yours, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Not… all of it,” Idallia muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Right, sure,” Robin smirked. “Fortunately, I’m used to this kind of marching. So here, I’ll share mine with you.”

Idallia seemed about to protest again before she sighed through her nose and nodded, pulling her own waterskin out of the pouch Basilio had given her. Like she had said, it wasn’t quite empty. But it was dangerously close, and Robin had to wonder how much she had been rationing. The pair stopped, letting the rest of the convoy slowly trundle by as Robin carefully poured half of his remaining water into her waterskin, leaving them both with maybe a quarter each. Then, mindful of waste, he licked the precious droplets that had escaped the rim while he’d been pouring off his hands.

“Thank you,” Idallia muttered, as if the words were acid on her tongue.

“You know, I’m sure we could find you a cloth to use as a mask,” Robin said as they started to walk again. “Like some of the Valmese are wearing? I’ve been thinking about it a while myself.”

Idallia wordlessly nodded, silently following the convoy beside him. Robin had to wonder, though, where he would get any cloth they could use. All they had managed to save from the Mages’ Tower was timber and paper, and it didn’t look like the Valmese would have much in the way of excess to share. With a shrug Robin shrugged his coat off and handed it to a perplexed Idallia. Then he used his dagger to make a few small cuts, and tore his long sleeves away from his shirt. Lucina would probably kill him for doing it, but they needed to keep the dust out of their faces more.

“It’s hot anyway,” Robin shrugged, grinning as he pulled his coat back on.

Idallia watched wordlessly, a slight dip in her brow, as Robin tore the sleeves into a shape that would allow them to be tied around their heads. Once he was done he handed the scrap of cloth to Idallia, smiling as he went about tying his own around his face. Idallia hesitated a moment before emulating him. Once it was done even the cloth couldn’t disguise the disgusted face that she made.

“You stink,” she said.

“You can always give it back,” Robin quipped.

“I think I will keep it,” Idallia grimaced. “I have already been made to endure far worse.”

“I believe the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’,” Robin said, rolling his eyes. “And, by the way? You’re welcome.”

Idallia bristled. “Do not think that now we will be ‘friends’ like the rest of-”

“Oh come off it,” Robin snapped, rounding on her. “You know what? I do not care that you tried to kill me. I do not care that you demolished my fort, endangered my students and almost killed my daughter. We can worry about that later, but right now weather you like it or not we need to work together. So shelf the crappy attitude and get over yourself.”

With that he spun and stomped a few feet ahead of her, mostly out of irritation with the merchant woman but also to hide the coughing fit his angry words had given him. After a few more moments of walking in silence Idallia caught up from where she had been standing, slack jawed behind her mask, and came alongside Robin again.

“Thank you for the mask,” Idallia said, her voice far softer than when she usually addressed him.

“It’s fine,” Robin sighed before breaking into a grin. “If you want to pay me back you can explain to my wife why I had to tear the sleeves off my shirt.”

“I think I will find another form of compensation,” Idallia deadpanned.

Robin opened his mouth to make some form of comeback, but hesitated when a low rumbling caught his attention. The ground shifted ever so slightly, and he and Idallia shared a wide-eyed look. At the head of the column Victor was standing on his cart, trying to get a good look at what was ahead of them.

“Dammit, no, no-no-no-no-no!” the Valmese man cursed.

Robin went running up to the cart, where Chrom was already jumping down to the dusty earth.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“We’re at the coast,” Chrom said quickly. “Apparently there are Risen attacking the ships.”

“Wanna show them why the Risen in our own time would run screaming when they saw us?” Robin asked with a grin behind his mask.

Chrom answered with a grin of his own, turning back to the convoy.

“Shepherds! Fall in! We’ve got Risen to slay!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am straight up not happy with this chapter, but I needed to get it done to finally bridge the story into the Future Past content. I say that a lot, though… I’m just never satisfied with my work.


	23. Chapter 23

The still air was thick with cloying smoke, drastically reducing the already terrible visibility further. From where Robin stood, on a hill overlooking the Central Valmese Coastal Region just south of where Chon’sin had once been, it looked for all the world exactly like the scene from Mount Prism so many years ago. Except this time instead of pilgrims fleeing for their lives it was refugees. The flames, the smoke and the presence of Risen were all the same. Except, unlike the pilgrims at Mount Prism, these people had nowhere left to escape to. And this time he didn’t have Lucina at his side for backup.

In her place instead Chrom gave him a quick glance, wondering what was taking the smaller man so long. Usually Robin could come up with plans in the blink of an eye, but age and the sudden sense of nostalgia had slowed him down. For a moment he considered letting Arya call their battle plans, but the people dying down at the beach didn’t have that much time.

At the far end of the beach, spilling over another hill, was another far-too familiar sight: a seemingly endless horde of Risen.

“Take everyone, form a line at the northern end of the beach,” Robin said finally. “Tharja, Ricken, Maribelle and Olivia will go with Victor and the other survivors and do what they can to help. Victor! Tell your leaders they’re out of time and to get the water and the people onto the ships. We’ll be the rearguard.”

Chrom stepped past Robin, licks of blue fire beginning to spring from Falchion’s blade.

“You heard the man, Shepherds! On me!” the Exalt roared, holding his blazing sword high, the blue flames lighting up the hilltop like a beacon in the perpetual twilight.

Before any of them could charge down the hill, though, a terrible bestial howl echoed around the beach, and a pack of giant wolves emerged from the fleeing refugees. Ita was at the forefront of the Shepherds in an instant, shoving Robin aside and looking down at the scene with wide eyes. After a moment’s hesitation she cupped her hands to her mouth and released an answering howl before leaning forward and transforming, already bolting down the hill before she’d even finished. Hesitating only a moment longer than Ita had Robin processed this new development, watching as a small handful of wolf-shape-shifters tore into the Risen lines, an oddly familiar seeming white-furred wolf the size of a horse leading them.

“Go!” Robin urged the Shepherds. “They’re expecting reinforcements now!”

Chrom led the charge, needing no further prompting, a small band of soldiers, warriors and misfits following him to stem the tide against the innumerable Risen, some more enthusiastically than the others. Just as they had practiced Femi and Arya hung back with Robin, watching as the wounded moved with the Valmese, Olivia watching over them with her slim sword already in hand. Robin was pleased to note that the dancer’s grip was firm on her blade and her gaze clear, not letting her maiming at the hands of Maris a few weeks ago affect her on the field. For her part, Tharja cast a withering glare in the direction of the fighting but otherwise followed his orders.

He could hardly blame her for being upset about being left out of the battle plans; Dark Magic was responsible for the damage done to this place, for the creatures now assaulting the refugees. Tharja and Robin both had spent a long time trying to change public opinion of the art back in their own world, and to see it still so clearly maligned here would no doubt be grating for her. She would never admit it, but she had been proud of the advances that they had made for the often misunderstood magic’s image back home. This probably hurt her as much as it was hurting him.

Giving his head a small shake, the tactician forced himself back into the moment. He was becoming far too easily distracted lately, a trait that needed to stop.

“Hang back,” Robin instructed the two girls, moving himself now towards the battle. “Femi, stick to anima magic. I’d rather you not use any Dark Magic until we have a firmer grasp on what’s going on here.”

“But I’m a Dark Mage!” the girl protested, hurrying to follow. “It’s literally in my title!”

“You saw what happened to the mages in Ylisstol,” Robin snapped. “Do as I say. Arya, support her with whatever spells you can. I’ll watch your back.”

“R-right!” Arya nodded.

The two girls stepped forward, Arya flicking nervously through her newly minted spellbook while Femi already had her own open to a pair of pages detailing an advanced, customized version of an Elfire spell. They both looked nervous, no doubt worried about the fact that with Tharja and Ricken wounded, and Robin refusing to use his own magecraft, the two inexperienced apprentices would be the Shepherds only magic support.

With a wave of her hand Femi sent five brilliant bolts of flame into the Risen horde, too far back to be of any immediate help to the Shepherds and the wolf shape-shifters, but it was a start. The spells lit up the twilight beach with their brilliance, illuminating the Risen horde and marking their position for the enemy. Fortunately, the Shepherds and the local wolves seemed to be doing an adequate job of distracting the enemy, so they remained safe.

Arya, for her part, couldn’t seem to get a grip on her own spell. Judging from what she was muttering Robin assumed that his apprentice was trying to cast an Elthunder spell; a little advanced for her level, but a perfect complement to Femi’s Elfire. She managed the incantation and hand gestures perfectly, but because of her nerves Arya couldn’t seem to get the mana to flow properly through her core and into her hand. Frustrated tears began to well in the corners of Arya’s eyes as Femi sent another rain of flaming projectiles into the Risen horde, close enough to the friendly lines this time to actually be helpful. Robin stepped forward, resting a hand on Arya’s shoulder.

“Relax,” he soothed. “Breathe. It all starts with your breath.”

The girl nodded, taking a deep, shuddering breath, then another, and a third before she finally began to calm down.

“Now, just like we practiced,” he said.

“It’s… hard to concentrate,” Arya complained.

“I could poke you in the side, like when I was trying to teach you to shut out distractions,” Robin offered with a grin.

“I think I can manage,” Arya smirked.

“It’s just like Plegia,” he assured her. “Just take a breath.”

She took another few calming breaths, flipping through her spellbook and settling on a simpler thunder spell, before repeating the same steps as before. Only this time Robin watched as mana coalesced in her hand and she sent three bolts of lightning into the Risen. Closer to a simple Thunder spell than the Elthunder that she was trying for, but Robin wasn’t about to mention that fact.

“I did it!” Arya cheered, smiling up at Robin.

“You did,” he nodded.

“Good job!” Femi added. “Now, is someone going to help me or am I just going to do this myself?”

“No problem telling who her teacher was,” Robin muttered, earning a giggle from Arya as she stepped up next to Femi again.

The older tactician watched the two girls firing destructive spells into the horde of Risen for a time, observing the ebb and flow of the battle. The Shepherds cut a swathe through the Risen, even the wolves that had held the tide before struggling to keep up with them. And of course they would; by this place’s standards the Shepherds were fresher than any warriors they had no doubt seen in years, if the survivors they had already met were of any indication. The other survivors were beginning to mobilize now, too, directing refugees towards the waiting ships and moving to form a defensive perimeter around the boarding area. Robin could see several weak points in their lines, though, clearly demonstrating that their leaders were no tacticians. The wolves from the initial charge had hung back for a moment when Chrom and the Shepherds had assaulted the Risen, but had begun fighting with renewed vigor the second they realized one of their own, Ita, was fighting with the Shepherds. Yet still more Risen poured over the hill in the north, flooding the plain and the beach…

Taking all of this into account Robin realized that they didn’t have enough time to get the people onto the ships and make their escape. They were just moving too slowly, and there were just too many Risen. They needed something, some form of edge that would give them the time they needed…

Suddenly a blasting curtain of green wind magic threw Risen into the air from the Shepherds’ front, Robin squinting to see what Galle was so desperately trying to-

A familiar Risen, wielding a black-bladed Chon’sinian sword and wearing matching dark armor approached the younger tactician, ducking and weaving through the spells…

“Oh that bitch,” Robin growled suddenly, yanking his sword free of its sheathe.

It couldn’t be… but, of course, Robin realized, this didn’t have to be their future. This could have been any future he’d sent them to. Meaning this could very well be the future that Lucina and her cohort had abandoned, or an alternate future altogether. Which meant that the Deadlords, the Risen abominations that had taken so much effort to kill during the war, could very well still be alive.

Simia could still very well be alive here.

“Girls, move closer to the Shepherd lines,” Robin instructed.

With quick, practiced movements he drew his hair back and tied it away from his face. Femi went to protest these new orders, but Arya silenced her friend with a shake of her head. She knew what this meant, what the look on his face right now meant. Something dangerous, beyond their skill, was facing them.

“Yes sir,” Arya nodded.

Robin gave them a reassuring grin, the movement of his face crinkling the scar tissue above his eye that was usually hidden by his long hair, before setting off at a jog towards the fighting.

Memories of holding Panne as she slowly bled to death surfaced in his mind.

Memories of watching Henry waste away to almost nothing.

The scar across the bridge of his nose, the one she had given him in his own time, began to ache.

He couldn’t use his magic. He was tired, and would be slower than usual. But he’d be damned if that bitch Deadlord Simia would hurt any more of his friends.

Of course, Robin would reflect later, it just couldn’t be that simple, though. He’d barely taken more than a few steps, having just finished tying his hair back, when a loud roar shook the air, coming from somewhere past the hill behind the Risen lines. To his further dismay, the roar was answered by three more, similar cries, from creatures far larger than the wolves currently fighting the Risen alongside the Shepherds. The sounds sent the refugees into a panic, the tired soldiers doing their best to calm the crowds, but Robin could still see people being trampled. The wolves, too, cowered, all but the larger white one yipping and whining as they shied away from the Risen. The Shepherds seemed at a loss, too busy for the most part with their own fighting to pay much attention to the roaring.

Then the first of the creatures crested the hill, and Robin could see why the people were so afraid.

Risen manaketes. Grima had created one of the worst taboos, something that Medeus had done in ancient times that was spoken of only briefly in history texts as a horrible abomination against all that was pure.

Zombie dragons.

As he watched the first was joined by three more of the creatures, flesh sagging and rotten and bones showing through old wounds as they lumbered towards the ships. Four great zombie dragons, all easily the size of Tiki when she transformed and no doubt just as powerful.

Robin began to panic, an icy hand of fear clutching his heart. He hadn’t felt this sensation in years. His breath began to come in ragged gasps, and he had to remind himself that Arya and Femi could still see him. He needed to be calm. He needed to be composed.

The Shepherds couldn’t kill those Risen things without serious help. Chrom fought hard, and would no doubt give a good accounting of himself considering his Awakened status, but the others didn’t stand a chance. The refugees didn’t stand a chance. If he didn’t do something, come up with some plan here and now, they would all die and he’d never see Lucina or Emmeryn again.

“Girls, move!” Robin shouted over his shoulder.

He then started to run towards the fighting, drawing deep from what little reserves of power he had left. Only to quickly decide it wasn’t enough. With a deep breath he did the unthinkable, and opened himself to Grima’s tainted mana again.

* * *

 

Risen fell into ash and dust beneath precise blows of Galle’s sword and fist, whip-snap kicks simply adding to the general pandemonium of the battle raging around him. His particular brand of fighting was the exact opposite of Van’s ‘crowd control’ style; his weapons were smaller, more precise, but just as dangerous. The pair had often gone toe-to-toe during their days as students, trying to find out whose style was superior. Judging from the body-count Galle was racking up he was inclined to think his style trumped the Ylissean’s.

He ducked and weaved, dodging between blows and around Risen weapons. Every so often one of the mangy, ragged wolf shape shifters would cross his path, giving him an odd look before moving on into the melee. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the Shepherds Vaike and Cherche, sandwiched between the older warriors but still keeping pace with the veterans. Vaike was clearly holding himself back, eager to lose himself in the melee like the wolves but composed enough not to break ranks. To Galle’s eye, though, it appeared Cherche was struggling; she wasn’t used to fighting on foot for extended periods of time, and despite being an exemplary warrior for her age small tells were still starting to show. The way her axe dipped low before she brought it back to guard, the subtle scrape of her boots on the ground as she dragged her feet, the twitching of the corners of her eyes. She was out of her depth and it was taking a toll on the older woman.

Of course, it didn’t help that none of them had properly eaten since they arrived in wherever they were. Galle honestly didn’t care where or when they were, though, so long as they could get back to their point of origin.

He clamped down on that train of thought before he could think of Mari, snarling at the endless horde of Risen that were so weak he actually could let his mind wander. Fortunately, the Risen offered the perfect distraction for his frustration. He spun, practically dancing among the Risen now as he lashed out, actually doing a side flip to bring his foot smashing down on one of the encroaching creatures. As Galle rose back to his feet in a cloud of purple-black ash dust he backpedaled towards the sound of Vaike’s shouts of encouragement and appreciation for his fighting style. He’d let himself get a little carried away, and needed to return to his position in the line before-

Galle froze, unsure of what he was seeing. An unmasked Risen was approaching him with a cruel smirk on its face. It was female in appearance, wearing bastardized Chon’sinian armor that looked to have been pulled from the nightmares of one of the Western smiths, and wielding a long, black-bladed katana. Aside from the glowing red eyes and the ash-grey skin she almost looked human.

Deciding not to leave it to chance Galle focused for a moment, reaching into his pouch and snapping his spellbook open, the already-gathered mana forming an Arcwind spell that blew a large section of the charging Risen horde into the air, their bodies crashing to the ground with sickening impacts before dissipating to ash.

The unmasked Risen-woman barely broke stride as thick black hair whipped around her face, ignoring the spell like Galle would ignore a gentle breeze. 

“Kid! Don’t let the sword touch you!” Vaike called out in warning.

“It is cursed!” Cherche added, pausing only to bring her axe down in a scything arc through three Risen at once. “Any wounds form that blade will not heal!”

Galle swore a native Plegian oath under his breath, realizing that he was still too far away from the Shepherds’ line and the other two were struggling to fill his gap. He threw another two Elwind spells at the Risen-woman before spinning to cast a third at his back in an attempt to thin the Risen encroaching on the Shepherds. Which, he realized, had probably been a mistake.

A soft clacking of lacquered plates was the only warning Galle got as the Risen-woman threw herself at him, silently lashing out with her sword in a perfectly-executed Chon’sinian stance. The only thing that saved Galle’s life was the muscle memory from all the time he’d spent sparring with Mari, his sword flashing into place to catch the blow before impacting painfully against his chest and shoulder as she drove him back. Galle dug in his heels, pushing awkwardly against the blow. He’d had to twist, and his wrist was bent at an odd angle. The worst part was that the Risen seemed to know this, too, and chuckled.

The thought of a Risen having enough presence of mind to actually laugh at him sent chills down Galle’s spine. When it spoke he actually flinched.

“Not bad… little boy…” the Risen woman hissed.

“Oh that’s so creepy,” Galle shuddered.

The young tactician expected the Risen to press her attack, and when she didn’t he edged back a step. When she didn’t follow he retreated a few more steps, their gazes locked. Before he could wonder what it was she was doing, still standing there motionless, smiling terrifyingly at him, a loud roar split the air, followed by three matching ones.

Galle didn’t hesitate a moment longer. His resolve crumbling, he turned and high-tailed it back towards the Shepherds before whatever it was even came into view, doing exactly what Lucina had always taught them not to. He had shown his back to the enemy.

With a mocking laugh the Risen swordswoman launched herself at him, and Galle closed his eyes, expecting to feel the bite of her weapon in his back any second now as he skidded to his knees in an attempt to avoid her.

When he realized he wasn’t dead he glanced up, looking over his shoulder to see the Risen woman frozen with an unsettling look of terror on her own face now. Galle looked around, noticing that more than a few of the Risen were quaking in what looked to be fear, but from what he couldn’t see.

Until he spotted Robin.

Sword in hand the older man fairly blazed with magical power, excess mana bleed-off making his eyes seem to smoke as the mana mist escaped his body. Gone was the pall of frailty and sickness that had overtaken him since arriving, the white-haired man seeming newly revitalized in a fashion that Galle could barely comprehend. Until he lifted his hand, and black flames exploded amongst the Risen lines, incinerating almost all of the present attackers in one single spell.

“Get to the ships!” Robin boomed, his voice carrying a note of command Galle had never heard from him before. “I’ll hold them here! Move! Don’t wait for me!”

“Robin, what are you doing!?” Cherche called.

“Go!” Robin shouted, his voice like a thunderclap in the sudden stillness.

Not all of the Risen were gone, though, and more were pouring down the hill with what appeared to be colossal Risen dragons, of all things. A few staggering Risen that had survived Robin’s spell fell to the Shepherds and the wolves before they began to retreat, Cordelia literally pulling a struggling Chrom away from the fighting.

“No!” he heard Chrom shouting. “Not again! Robin! Don’t do this!”

“Kid! Move!” Vaike called to Galle, snapping his attention back.

But the young Plegian was transfixed by the sight of his former teacher walking so calmly through the ankle-deep ashes of the Risen he’d just slain. Deciding that he would be safe enough with Robin there, Vaike and Cherche turned to assist with the refugees, leaving Galle kneeling alone, bearing witness for the first time to his master’s wrath. For each step Robin took the Risen woman took one back, her knees shaking as he approached. Eventually Robin stood above Galle, not even looking down at his former student, his blazing gaze never leaving the Risen woman.

“On your feet, Galle,” Robin said softly, his voice momentarily returning to the old, gentle tone he’d always taken with his students. “Rule number one. Don’t fall down on the battlefield.”

And then he was gone, striding forward again.

Arya had once told Galle that she thought Basilio reminded her of an old god of war, something indomitable and unstoppable. He had secretly agreed with her at the time. Looking at the old Khan it was easy to see why he gave that impression; he was built for war, by a lifetime of fighting and harsh living. Watching how he fought, decades of experience distilled down to its purest form at the end of his axe just enforced that image. But Galle revised that opinion now. The Robin before him was a true god of war.

A few of the surviving Risen, shambling and limping now from the force of his spell, leapt towards Robin, more out of fear than anything else. Like terrified animals turning on their master. Such was the speed of his blows that it looked to Galle like he reduced them to ashes with naught but a glare, the afterimage of his blade flashing through the air the only clue that he had moved at all. Another torrent of magical flames licked at the advancing Risen, the lead two zombie dragons crying out in pain as another rank of the Risen were disintegrated by black-tinged flames.

And in the face of Robin’s overwhelming strength the Risen woman fell to her knees herself, tears running down her blackened flesh as she looked up at him now looming over her.

“M-master?” she stammered, just loud enough for Galle to hear.

He couldn’t see the expression that Robin made, but the way he flinched was all too obvious. There was a brief moment of indecision on the older man’s part before he brought the pommel of his sword down on the side of the Risen’s face, smashing her temple and knocking her out cold.

And then in a puff of ashes he was gone, disappearing before the Risen had even fallen to the ground. Galle stood there, lost for a moment until the first of the Risen manaketes roared, falling to the ground and exploding into a cloud of ashes and bones. Slashing through the ashes Robin leapt through the air at another of the creatures, the massive zombie dragon falling just as quickly in two neatly-bisected pieces. Where he landed, surrounded by the ashes of the Risen dragon as it fell around him the smaller Risen went flying into the air, more and more ashes following Robin’s progress through the horde. Even when Galle lost sight of the man he wasn’t hard to pinpoint again; all he had to look for was the clouds of ash and the broken Risen sent flying through the air. A third dragon fell, Risen actually trying to go back up and over the hill to escape from the tactician tearing their ranks apart now, literally singlehandedly. Risen easily twice the size of the tactician flew through the air, weapons and armor amounting for nothing before the one-man rampage. In a manner of minutes Robin had decimated the Risen more effectively on his own than all the Shepherds present had, than an entire army would have.

As he began to stalk towards the final Risen manakete a single voice cried out above the sounds of battle, cutting through the din.

“No! Stop! You’ll die!”

Robin barely hesitated for a moment before launching himself at the behemoth creature, Galle’s jaw dropping as he looked back over his shoulder and saw a panicked Tharja running towards him. Arya and Femi both followed behind the mage, clearly unsettled by her behavior.

“Robin!” Tharja shrieked. “Stop!”

Her cries were drowned out by the death knell of the final dragon, the creature disappearing in a cloud of ash. This appeared to be a signal to the rest of the Risen, who as one threw down their weapons and ran back the direction they had come. It had taken barely a few minutes, but the Risen were in full retreat now, yet another thing Galle never thought he would see. Robin stood motionless among the retreating Risen watching them go as his chest and shoulders heaved with his breathing. After a few more moments of observing their retreat he turned and began to walk back towards the boats, his eyes on the ground and his shoulders slumping. Tharja had reached Galle’s position now, and she stumbled on one of the discarded weapons from a dead Risen. Galle couldn’t help but be shocked by the state she was in. The usually unmovable Tharja was shaking on the verge of tears, her eyes wide and her skin so pale it was almost translucent. She totally ignored the fallen Risen woman, her eyes glued to Robin as he walked back towards them with his head bowed.

It had been a total rout. In less than twenty minutes Robin had, alone, torn apart the Risen horde and sent them scrambling for safety.

Galle’s throat worked, trying to swallow so he could actually speak again as he climbed to unsteady feet.

Eventually Robin reached them, glaring down at the Risen woman in the silence that everyone seemed reluctant to break. Finally Robin spoke without looking up, his voice monotone.

“Galle, bind her hands and feet and-”

A loud crack split the quiet, Robin’s head snapping aside from where Tharja had hit him.

“Are you out of your mind!?” she hissed.

“Probably,” Robin said with a tired grin, finally looking up at them.

What Galle saw in his former mentor’s face broke his heart. It wasn’t some lingering phantom of the evil he’d been apparently fighting all his life, nor was it the overwhelming power he had just demonstrated.

Robin looked tired. So very tired, and so very human.

“You fool,” Tharja muttered, the strength seeming to evaporate from her frame.

“Galle,” Robin repeated. “Bind this… thing. Please.”

He wordlessly moved to obey, digging around his pouch for the length of rope that Mari always made him carry. It had seemed strange at first, carrying something that he would never usually need, but now Galle was glad for it. He knelt down and began to tie the Risen’s ankles together, the way Mari had taught him to.

“What… was that?” Femi asked in a small voice. “Sir Robin? How did you just do… that? You tore them apart! Alone!”

“Later,” he said, waving the young mage girl’s questions away. “I’ll explain later. Right now I’ve only bought us a little time. There’s more coming and I can’t… do that again.”

Galle glanced up at the older man’s pause but said nothing, instead cinching the ropes tighter around the Risen’s wrists. He paused for a moment when he realized that he was the only logical choice to carry the thing that had very nearly killed him, his stomach rebelling at the thought as Robin began to speak again.

“Galle, I’m going to need you to-”

“Carry it? Yeah, I figured,” the Plegian sighed. “Arya, can you at least, like, help or something?”

* * *

 

In the distance, from atop a knife-edged hilltop, a robed figure perched and watched as Robin decimated the Risen horde single-handedly. The figure made a thoughtful sound under his breath, startlingly loud in the unnatural stillness.

“So I was right,” Clarus mumbled to himself. “Fascinating. I knew you couldn’t ignore it for long…”

For an indeterminate amount of time he had shadowed the Shepherds, curious to see how they reacted to the polluted mana of this clime. He himself had felt energized since teleporting here, as if he were a young man again. Yet the Shepherds seemed to be falling ill, Robin especially. As they had slept he had inspected the tactician, sneaking into their camp to get a closer look, and it appeared that the man had been forcefully blocking his mana, despite his clear predisposition for dark magic.

To see that Clarus was right, and his hypothesis that Robin would be far more powerful here was correct gave him a sense of satisfaction.

It gave him a greater sense of satisfaction that his other hypothesis had been correct, too. That Grima’s siren song had called them here, that his experiments had drawn the attention of the Fell Dragon reborn.

Of course, Clarus knew they were somehow in an alternate timeline. It had been his own spell that had been hijacked, and Clarus was an accomplished theoretical mage. His skills lie not on the battlefield like so many others of his ilk, but in research and understanding. The only reason Robin’s theft of his spell back in Ylisstol had worked at all was due to the airborne mana almost instinctively flocking to him.

Although how the Tactician had possessed the presence of mind to invert his summoning spell and turn it into a teleportation spell was beyond Clarus. Truly he was a rare talent, a brilliant mind.

As a researcher Clarus knew that calling the mana’s behavior ‘instinctive’ was foolish. But that was how it had felt. He had tried to rationalize it as some other phrase; magnetic, irresistible, unstoppable. Yet all of those words weren’t even close. It had been instinctive. Primordial. Right.

Grima’s power knew its avatar, recognized it, so of course it would automatically coalesce around it.

Like now, as Robin used the power to annihilate the Risen threatening the wretched dregs of humanity still clinging to life in this dead land. It was fascinating just how tenacious humanity was. In the past Clarus might have felt a brief inkling of pride at the fact that they had survived so long, but now he just viewed the situation with cold detachment.

Robin and the Shepherds, however… that was a different story.

“Breathtaking, isn’t it?”

Clarus glanced over his shoulder at the sudden voice, red eyes glowing beneath the hood of his robes.

There was nothing there.

With a shrug the made went back to watching the Risen run in fear from the Awakened Tactician, studying the effect that the residual fell energy was having on his movements. It wasn’t like hearing voices was anything new for the man; he’d been hearing them ever since he and Alvidian had begun experimenting on poor, young, misguided Galuc. Admittedly, though, those had just been whispers. Illegible, on the edge of his consciousness. This one had sounded as if someone-

“Ha! The nerve of you, deigning to ignore me!”

Clarus spun this time, coming to his feet with the movement, creating a small cloud of dust in the air.

Again, nothingness.

A soft chuckle, almost like a purr, came from the empty darkness just before him.

“Now, little human, where did you steal this power from?”

Clarus’ eyes widened as he realized that the darkness wasn’t empty. A bipedal shadow, slightly larger than an average human, hung darker than the surrounding twilight just before him. Relaxing his guard, Clarus tilted his head to examine the shade.

“And what are you?” he asked, his academic curiosity getting the better of him.

The shade chuckled again, seeming to recline in the nothingness.

“I am the salvation of this world, Servant. Come to me. Come to me in what is left of Ylisse. Come to me and serve your god.”

Clarus smirked, inclining his head a little. “I always figured that you were where this power came from. It was you, wasn’t it? You were calling to me, in my own world.”

“You called to me,” the shade said. “By touching my power, my essence, you called to me. And now I have answered. The Fallen Avatar was a fool in thinking his actions were anything less than my own machinations.”

“You planned this,” Clarus stated, impressed.

“Yes,” the shade said, dipping its head in a nod.

“You will teach me?” Clarus asked, growing excited.

“What do you wish to know, little human?” the shade asked, drifting closer.

Clarus looked up to the shade, his red eyes fairly shining now.

“Everything,” he whispered. “I want to know everything there is to know.”

“Then come to Ylisse,” the shade whispered, fading into the darkness again.

Clarus nodded, turning back to the ships in the distance as the last of the Risen retreated from the beach. Once more Clarus felt a smile tug at his dry lips, the broken skin splitting and a few drops of black blood falling onto his chin.

* * *

 

Nearly an hour later and Galle and Arya once again stood at Robin’s side, watching their former and current teacher, respectively, being grilled by the other Shepherds.

“-out of your damned mind!? Thank Naga Lucina wasn’t here to see you-”

“-promised you wouldn’t do that again! You gave us your word and-”

“-stole all the good parts! You always take all the fun and leave none for-”

“Alright! Enough!” Robin snapped, quieting the noisy crowd. “Everyone can complain at me at once later! Right now, we should be focusing on getting the hell out of here!”

The majority of the Shepherds were gathered on the deck of one of the lingering ships, the rest having already pushed out to sea to begin their journey. The remaining refugees had all but ignored the Shepherds, the majority of the soldiers among them forming an ad hoc line around the landing site to let the civilians board the ships. A continuous, silent procession of filthy, ragged people shuffled up the gangplank and into the belly of the giant ship, a Valmese Dreadnaught capable of moving hundreds of people at once, most not even sparing their saviors a second glance. A few soldiers supervised their embarkation, but kept their distance from the strangers, content to keep a wary eye on them from a distance.

There was a moment of silence after Robin’s outburst before Chrom let out a sigh and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“I didn’t even think you could do that anymore,” the Exalt said, his tone fairly dripping with fatigue. “What without Grima’s power…”

“But we’re not without it. Not here, not now. This merely confirms it,” Tharja spoke up from where she was sitting at the back of the group.

Galle leaned around the crowd to regard the usually stoic Dark Mage matriarch, currently sitting next to a pale Femi, exhausted, wounded and bowed. She didn’t look up, her hair hiding her eyes. All Galle could see was her mouth, set in a deeper scowl than usual. Silence met her comment.

“So… what? The big bad dark dragon has… revived? Is this that… future that Lady Lucina and her friends came from?” Galle asked when no one spoke. “Because I did not sign up for this.”

“Galle…” Arya hissed.

“No! No, I’ve had enough!” Galle suddenly snapped, his voice rising. “Slavers and psychopaths set on taking over a foreign country? Sure, that I can deal with. That’s what I was trained, trained by you, Robin, to deal with. Not this! Not monsters and possessed warriors, who almost killed us by the way, and… and… whatever the hell Clarus was! Not travelling into the future with no way to get home!”

He rounded on Robin, dimly aware he was shouting now.

“You said you’d dealt with this! You said you’d killed him, that there was no way for him to come back! So what the hell is this!? What the hell did you get me into, Robin!?”

“Galle that’s enough!” Arya practically shrieked.

 The Plegian tactician shook his head before running a hand through his hair. Without another word he turned away and stalked off, leaving the Shepherds to their planning. He pushed past the refugee soldiers, who had been mutely watching the altercation, before leaping from the side of the massive ship and using wind magic to slow his descent.

“Well, that took longer than I thought it would,” Robin sighed. “I was expecting one of them to lose it much earlier. Wasn’t expecting it to be Galle, though.”

“Should someone go after him?” Arya asked in a small voice. 

“Let him cool off. He’ll be fine,” Robin assured her.  

“For now, our course is still clear,” Chrom said, trying to get the meeting back on track.

“We need to get to Ylisse,” Robin explained. “There are tales of Naga transporting heroes, Einherjar, to other worlds. While just stories, even myths are grown from a seed of truth. If we can get to Mount Prism and summon Naga again…”

“It’s the best plan we have,” Chrom declared, forestalling any more questioning or argument. “For now we should aid the refugees however we can.”

“I will aid their healers,” Maribelle announced without hesitation.

“As will I,” Cordelia added. “Anyone with first aid training is welcome to join us.”

“Teach is gonna go help secure the beach,” Vaike said. “Anyone wanna come?”

“I’m in,” Sully growled. “Sitting around doing nothing makes my armor itch.”

“That’s why teach don’t wear none,” Vaike grinned.

The group, minus those already on the beach, dissipated, quickly leaving only Robin, Arya, Chrom and the two Dark Mages sitting alone in the shadow of the ship’s forecastle deck. The main deck itself was easily the size of most of the city squares Arya had seen in her travels, numerous carts being either tied down or lowered deeper into the ship. To see such emaciated people working so hard, so feverishly, was almost amusing to her until she realized that this is what she must have looked like to Robin and the others when they had first found her.

“Are they all gone?” Robin asked.

“Yes, you can collapse now,” Chrom sighed.

Robin grinned, giving a weak snicker as he leaned against the rough wood of the ship, slowly letting himself slide down into a sitting position.

“Good,” he mumbled, before giving a wet cough. “Didn’t want them to worry.”

“I think it’s a little late for that,” Femi muttered, earning a smirk from Chrom.

The Exalt quickly grew serious again, moving to squat at Robin’s side and checking his pulse from the tactician’s neck.

“How do you feel?” the blue haired man asked.

“Like crap, how do you think?” Robin chuckled.

“Is it like… before?” Chrom asked hesitantly.

“Worse,” Robin sighed, his grin failing. “Much, much worse. But at least it feels like I’m in control this time.”

Chrom nodded, standing and looking to the mages. “Tharja-”

“There is nothing you can do save let him rest,” the older mage groaned, rising slowly to her feet. “But Robin, you should know that if you draw on so much of Grima’s power again it will kill you. Without a doubt.”

“I know, thank you,” he groaned, rolling his eyes.

“I was saying it for his benefit,” she drolled, nodding towards Chrom. “If you will not listen to me, I will simply have to find another voice you will listen to.”

“Ha! Oh, you always did play dirty,” Robin chuckled, leading into a weak coughing fit.

“Thank you for that insight, Tharja,” Chrom said, stone-faced. “Arya? Do not let Robin cast so much as a spark. Tharja, would you mind joining me in finding the leaders of this exodus?”

“Y-yes!” Arya squeaked, amazed that the Exalt of Ylisse knew her name.

Tharja sighed through her nose, her frown deepening as she appeared to think of Chrom’s request.

“Don’t frown so much, you’ll get wrinkles,” Robin snickered weakly, head lolling slightly.

“Remind me why I try so hard to keep you alive?” Tharja deadpanned.

“I’ve been trying to figure it out for years,” Robin laughed.

“Very well, Lord Chrom,” Tharja said, pointedly ignoring Robin as she turned to Femi. “Girl. Stay with the fool. Ensure he doesn’t do anything else to endanger his life.”

“Yes, mistress,” Femi said with a formal bow.

“And what will you do while we’re gone?” Chrom asked, raising a brow as Robin began to push himself back to his feet.

“I’m going to question the prisoner,” Robin said.

As he spoke Robin nodded towards the bound and gagged form of the Deadlord, lying prostrate on the deck. She simply sat, awake now, watching the Shepherds with her glowing red eyes. Arya had been trying not to look at her, but now that she did chills went up and down the girl’s spine.

Chrom just shook his head. “Very well. I defer to your judgement on this one.”

“Don’t worry, Chrom, I won’t make the mistake I did last time,” Robin assured the Exalt, eyes narrowing as he beheld the Deadlord. “Once I’m done with it, this time I’ll destroy it before it can cause any more damage.”

* * *

 

Clarus pulled the hood of his coat low over his brow as he approached the teeming throng of survivors intent on escaping across the sea. So many filthy, unwashed people made his skin crawl, but he pushed those thoughts aside as he joined the crowd in quietly shuffling towards the beach.

He had thought of simply pushing his way through, but with the Shepherds spread out everywhere he wanted to play this closer to the chest.

How easy it was for him to sneak right under their noses, blending in with the wretched refugees as they fled for Ylisse.

How simple it was to allow them to take him directly to where he wanted to go.

The thought made him want to smile, but he curbed the compulsion. No one among the refugees were smiling. Most simply looked down at the ground beneath their feet, allowing the flow of the crowd to carry them towards the boats. Perhaps they had no energy left for anything else. Conditions for the average human would be deplorable, and judging from the gaunt state of the locals food was scarce.

The rogue mage took this fact into account, hunching himself over and doing his best to shrink in on himself, presenting as small and unassuming a form as possible. Thanks to the Shepherds, too, his cloak was tattered and worn. All it had taken was a few moments kicking the garment around in the dust before he’d approached the beach and he fit right in. Now he marched, mixed in with men and women and children, all marching towards the promise of a non-existent salvation. Close to his right side a family marched, a mother and father protectively sandwiching a young girl between them. To his left, what appeared to be a group of crippled soldiers, seven men all missing limbs and leaning on each other as they followed the crowd. Behind him he knew a young boy pushed an old wheelbarrow containing the legless form of some older male relative. Ahead of him more bodies, more injuries, more suffering that was utterly lost on Clarus.

The crowd continued its disordered, silent march towards the boats, and just as Clarus began to feel his impatience rising he heard a familiar voice.

“Well someone has to be in charge around here!”

“Oh will you give it a rest! You need to eat something soon, old man, because you’re getting grumpy!”

“Ha! I was wondering when you would snap! It’s about time I heard something from you besides one-word answers and complaining!”

“Oh yes, you frayed my patience to its end, hurrah.”

He hesitated and glanced up, careful to hide the soft glow of his eyes as he scanned for…

“Idallia…” he muttered, the words a hushed whisper from his bloody lips.

There she was, sneering up at a giant of a Feroxi man as he laughed and slapped her on the back. She was just as dirty and exhausted-looking as the rest of the human refuse around her, but that same tired spark in her eyes still glinted. She was wearing her old cavalryman armor from the war, and had a strange scrap of cloth tied around her throat. She sighed, shaking her head and turning away from the big man as he plowed through the crowd again in a seemingly random direction.

Given the general slow pace of the crowd Clarus was afforded a number of minutes to simply observe the self-styled ‘Merchant Queen of Themis’ as she waited impatiently, for what Clarus couldn’t tell. After a time another, younger man joined her. Clarus barely had to try to overhear their conversation, the crowd was so eerily quiet. A few of the other refugees looked up to watch the strangers briefly, but went back to shuffling along and staring at the ground beneath their feet.

“Galle, was it? What do you want?” Idallia asked coldly.

“My life back?” the young man spat.

Much to Clarus’ surprise, Idallia laughed at this. The sudden sound made more of the refugees glance up again, but no one did or said anything beyond that.

“Ha! Join the club, boy! None of us should be here right now, and it’s all your damned teacher’s fault.”

“Actually, I’d say it was Clarus’ fault,” the youth, Galle, said, crossing his arms.

Clarus couldn’t help but smile at this, ignoring the pain it brought his desiccated lips.

Idallia gave a long sigh, clearly thinking better of it as she began to cough and hack, the perpetual dust making its presence known again.

“Bah! Gods how I loathe this hell-hole!” Idallia fumed.

“Well, seems we won’t be here much longer,” Galle said. “With the view from the big ship you can see that they’ve already got about half of the crowd we saw when we arrived out at sea.”

“I didn’t notice,” Idallia said, sounding bored.

“Tactician,” Galle said with an arrogant shrug. “I’m trained to notice. Not… fight armies of demonic undead and dark dragons and whatever else this forsaken place has in store for us…”

Idallia smirked at this, the expression on her face giving Clarus an odd longing sensation in his chest.

“Then simply do what I am doing and find the biggest oaf to hide behind. There are a few of them among the Shepherds, I’ve noticed.”

As she spoke Idallia let out a shallow sigh, clearly learning from her previous mistake, and looked away from the boy. Directly at Clarus. He ducked his head, hoping that his hood had been pulled low enough over his face that she wouldn’t notice him…

“Yeah, I think your particular oaf has room to spare behind him. Idallia? Khan Idallia? What is it?”

Clarus silently cursed himself a fool, beginning to gather mana to himself when a thought struck him.

“Hey! You! In the hood!” Idallia called out.

The mage smirked and let out a wisp of dark magic to his side, the child wandering along in the crowd letting out a whimper before shrieking and falling on her face. As the crowd let fear take hold and retreated from the unexpected death Clarus allowed himself to be pulled along in its wake, catching one final glimpse of Idallia and the boy Galle as they knelt over the child’s body, the stunned parents looking on frozen.

Then he was safely swallowed up by the press of bodies, still flowing steadily towards the ships.

* * *

 

On the opposite side of beach that Idallia and Galle were on Chrom gently pushed through the docile crowds of refugees, leading Tharja in the direction of what he hoped were leaders of some sort. From the deck of the great Dreadnaught they had convened on he had spotted what appeared to be a group of officers near the defensive line, which was where he and Tharja were headed now. He was guessing, though. There had been no flags, no tents, no unit cohesion. Chrom was simply following his gut.

“You know, we’ve never really spoken much,” Chrom commented as they walked.

“And you chose now to rectify that?” Tharja asked, her tone indicating just how stupid she thought he was.

“No time better than the present,” Chrom smirked over his shoulder. “How’s your arm?”

Tharja glanced down at her injured arm, still bound in a sling.

“Fine,” she said.

“Good,” Chrom said, unsure of what to say next.

They stopped to allow a cart full of ragged and emaciated children to trundle past, Chrom’s heart aching to see them so.

“Do not grieve for those not yet dead,” Tharja said softly, coming to stand by his shoulder.

“You’re right,” Chrom nodded. “We can still make sure their suffering wasn’t for nothing, and give them a better future.”

“You are beginning to sound like your daughter,” Tharja commented, beginning to walk again.

Chrom let out a laugh, jogging a few steps to catch up with her.

“I can think of worse things for someone to say to me,” he said with an easy grin.

Tharja merely rolled her eyes, continuing on in silence.

After a time they finally managed to come upon the group of officers that Chrom had seen from the ship, surrounded by a ragged knot of other soldiers. Men in more mismatched armor from all the nations and dynasts of Valm were represented in this crowd from the looks of things, all with the same desperate and defeated looks on their faces. Chrom wasn’t even sure they were getting close at first, considering how destitute the warriors appeared. Surely the leaders would have at least a little pride in their appearances. However, he realized they were getting closer when he could hear the yelling over the steady thrum of the crowd around him.

Namely, one familiar voice in particular.

“You can’t possibly hold this line with the forces you have! Have you seen them lately!? Most of ‘em can barely lift their swords! Pull them back, consolidate your line, show some gods-damned sense-”

“I’ve heard just about all I am willing to take, you gorilla! Be silent! If you wish to join the exodus then so be it, but do so quietly-”

“Boy, I’m here to save your pathetic exodus!”

“Khan Basilio!” Chrom called out, pushing through the crowd of tired soldiers.

The large Feroxi glanced up with his one good eye from where he had been looming over what appeared to be a Valmese officer. The young man in question looked almost like a child playing at dress-up, the armor was so large on him, but he held himself up and sneered at Chrom in true Imperial Valm fashion.

“Ah, more rabble,” he frowned. “Either fall in line or get on the ships. I have no time for-”

“Make time,” Chrom cut him off, turning to display the Mark of the Exalt on his shoulder. “I am Exalt Chrom the First of the Haildom of Ylisse, and I demand to speak to whoever is in charge here.”

Chrom felt bad about coming across as so heavy-handed, but sometimes it just made matters faster to play the ‘I’m royalty’ card. A ripple went through the gathered soldiers like someone had dropped a stone in a calm pond in response, a spark of life returning to their exhausted eyes. Whispered conversations in all the languages of the Valmese continent spread out around them. The word ‘Ylisse’ was repeated again and again in the conversation that sprung up almost instantly, leaving Chrom to look around nervously and wonder if being so careless had been a good idea after all. Even the officer that Basilio had been arguing with looked at a loss, torn between what he saw as his orders and some form of hope.

“Is it true?” someone from the crowd asked. “Are you from across the great sea?”

“I, uh…” Chrom mumbled.

He almost leapt out of his skin as Tharja stepped up to his shoulder, glaring down her nose at the assembled soldiers beginning to crowd in on them.

“Yes,” she snapped, her usually cold voice harsh. “We are. Now where are your leaders?”

Another ripple went through the crowd as members broke off, looking for whoever was in command. As they did the officer Basilio had singled out stepped forward as if in a daze, the big Khan not far behind him with a frown on his face. Chrom took the moment to lean over to Tharja, unable to suppress his grin.

“I didn’t know you could even talk that loud,” he whispered.

“I’ve been a teacher for five years,” she muttered, looking away to hide her embarrassment. “Now hush before you spoil the illusion.”

“Thanks for the save,” he muttered, still grinning as he straightened again.

Tharja said nothing, making a strangled growl as she stepped back from where Chrom met face to face with the young officer now.

“When Victor came back we… we thought he had lost his mind,” the Valmese man said. “But… is it really…”

“I am Chrom,” he declared, rising to his full height. “And I have come to-“

“Lies!” a voice cried out suddenly. “Deception! Chrom is dead!”

They all spun to where a furious woman in Chon’sinian armor was pushing through the crowd, the promise of violence fairly radiating off her. Her robes beneath cracked and scored armor might once have been white, but were as ragged and filthy as the rest of the refugees. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face, revealing a harsh visage marred by a large leather patch covering her left eye and most of that side of her face-

“Oh Naga, Say’ri, is that you?” Chrom asked, his eyes widening.

He barely had time to finish his question before he was forced to duck, the woman in question having swung at his face with a vicious right hook.

“Deceiver!” she snarled, catching herself and drawing back, reaching for her sword. “You are not him!”

“Girl, get a grip,” Basilio thundered, stepping forward and clamping one great paw on her shoulder. “Take a look! You can’t fake the brand!”

Chrom turned to show off his shoulder, stunned almost silent by the future Say’ri’s ire. There was no doubt in his mind it was her; her bearing, the fire in her eyes, these were the same as the idealistic young freedom fighter that had joined them back during the war with Valm. But now Say’ri had aged, forced to fight against a doomed future. She froze, studying Chrom’s bared arm. When it appeared she wouldn’t be taking a second swing at the Exalt, Basilio released her and moved to Chrom’s side with Tharja. Say’ri looked up, confusion warring with something else on her face, something that Chrom couldn’t place. She turned her gaze first on Tharja and then again on Basilio, blinking in disbelief.

“Lady Tharja… Khan Basilio… you are both… alive?” she muttered in disbelief. “It… is it truly? Fie, but I saw you all die! To Walhart and to… to Grima…”

“It’s… complicated,” Chrom said, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. “If Robin were here he’d explain it better, but… ah… we’re from the past.”

Say’ri flinched when Chrom said Robin’s name, but otherwise remained silent.

“A spell went wrong and transported us, and a number of others, to this future,” he went on. “We’re… trying to get home. Uh… Say’ri? Are you okay?”

“I cannot believe my eyes…” Say’ri mumbled, her remaining eye wide.

“Eye,” Basilio corrected with a smirk, earning a glare from Tharja. The big Khan shrugged and grinned. “What? It’s a common mistake. I still make it myself.”

Say’ri shook her head, clearly at a loss. Behind her the press of soldiers parted to reveal a filthy Ita, leading another wolf shape-shifter with her. The shape-shifter that had travelled with Robin’s band looked incredibly pleased with herself, grinning her fang-filled smile as he tail swished back and forth. The other shifter, an older woman with long white hair, her face marred by an old claw scar that started just below her lips and ran the length of the right side of her neck, was clearly a local. She was also far older than Ita, her once-pretty face lined and aged, sunken and hollow just as the rest of the refugees.

“They speak truth, good Queen,” the wolf woman assured Say’ri. “I smell it. There is no deception in the manspawn’s words.”

“Ita. Who is your… friend?” Chrom asked.

“My Queen, Nirath,” she said, puffing her chest up with pride.

“A Queen of burned forests and ghosts,” Nirath laughed bitterly. “To think the last of our kind was shown up by a runt. Ah, how we have fallen.”

Ita seemed to beam at the backhanded compliment, but Say’ri ignored the exchange.  

“If what you say is true,” the Chon’sin queen said slowly, “Then you have come… to save us?”

“It’s on the to-do list,” Basilio shrugged. “I wouldn’t pass up the chance to tangle with Grima again.”

“Again?” Say’ri parroted.

“Indeed,” Tharja said, her voice carrying again. “We have come from a world where Exalt Chrom and Robin worked together to cast the Fell Dragon back into the abyss!”

Frenzied whispering broke out around them, and Chrom turned to the Dark Mage.

“Tharja, what are you doing?” he muttered urgently.

“Getting us transport,” she muttered back.

“Exalt Chrom has been awakened! Grima will not be able to stand before him!” Tharja went on.

There was a moment of dead silence before the gathered soldiers broke out in a ragged cheer, many hefting their weapons or helms, or simply throwing their hands into the sky.

“Fie, but is it true?” Say’ri asked over the tumult. “Have you truly been Awakened?”

“Yes, but…” Chrom mumbled.

“Then there is yet hope!” Nirath laughed, swaying and leaning on Ita’s shoulder.

The younger wolf looked shocked for a moment before reaching around to support her exhausted monarch, her toothy grin returning.

“How many of you are there?” Say’ri inquired over the cheers, her face clearly showing her relief. “Is it just you three?”

“No, a number of us are patrolling the perimeter with your men, and the rest should still be on the ship with Robin and-”

“Robin!?” Say’ri shouted, grabbing Chrom’s shoulders desperately. “He is here!? Where!?”

“On the… big ship?” he replied, taken aback.

Say’ri took a moment to digest this, and then she was gone, shoving her way through the celebrating crowds so fast Chrom was left to wonder what exactly had just happened. Behind him Nirath smirked, the old wolf-woman shaking her head as she stood on her own again.

“It is good that she is here,” the older wolf said. “Many will be glad to see Chon’sin’s king return from the dead-”

“What!?” Chrom, Basilio and Tharja all shouted in unison.

And then Chrom’s eyes widened as it hit him. In the original timeline Robin had married Say’ri and they had had Morgan. But Lucina had altered events by coming back in time, meaning that Robin had never married Say’ri in their own timeline.

Which meant that Robin had a very confused Say’ri rushing towards him.

“Oh, this is going to end badly,” Chrom groaned.


	24. Chapter 24

Robin had to fight to keep his face neutral as he squatted down next to the prone form of the Deadlord at his feet, contempt and disgust both warring for a place on his countenance. Arya and Femi both waited behind him, watching silently to see how the older man ‘interrogated’ such a monster. As he got closer he leaned in, Simia looking back with the same blank, neutral expression. Absently Robin noted that, once he got close enough, he could actually see iris’ and pupils in the creature’s glowing red eyes.

“I should kill you,” he muttered, just loud enough for the Deadlord to hear him. “I let you live once. And it cost me.”

As he spoke he ran his thumb across scar on the bridge of his nose, making it clear what exactly the Deadlord had done to him. In response Simia’s eyes widened a fraction before she went back to the neutral expression.

“Oh, I forgot,” Robin chuckled. “You haven’t done any of that in this timeline. But I’ll just bet you still hurt my friends.”

He reached down, gently undoing the rag gagging the Deadlord.

“Have you killed any of the Shepherds?” he asked plainly.

“Yes,” Simia answered without hesitation.

Robin’s reaction was as instant as it was visceral, his fist snapping down and crashing into the side of the Risen’s face with a sickening crack. He took a breath, massaging the bruised knuckles as Simia gasped into the floor, black blood running down her chin from a split lip now as she shook her head clear.

“Why?” Robin hissed, looming above her.

“Because you ordered… it, master,” Simia said, looking up at him.

Robin would be the first to admit he’d never expected to see emotion on a Risen’s face, much less a Deadlord. Oh sure, he’d seen them, this one in particular, angry, violent, raging and screaming. And in her last moments in his own time, he’d seen a flash of fear in Simia’s eyes. But nothing like this. The confusion, the hurt, the yearning in the Deadlord’s glowing red eyes actually brought Robin up short.

“What has this one… done to displease you… master?” she asked, more black blood running down her chin and onto the deck.

A cold hand of ice wrapped itself around Robin’s heart as he processed what the Risen was saying. He was afraid, and in that fear he snapped. Robin gave a furious roar, grabbing Simia by the back of the head and slamming her face into the deck.

“I am not your master!” he thundered. “I’ll kill you! You and every one of your misbegotten kind!”

There was a moment of silence, Simia’s shocked and hurt expression mirroring the looks of fear on Arya and Femi’s faces for a moment before the Risen closed her eyes, a serene expression settling on her face now, even as it was ground into the rough planks of the Dreadnaught’s decking.

“If that is… your desire,” she almost whispered, the words slurred as she spoke into the deck.

Robin panted, crouched and ready to strike, his hand automatically going for Raziel on the small of his back. He hesitated for a moment, and despite his promise to Chrom indecision still clawed at his mind. In that moment Femi shuffled forward a step, the young Dark Mage clearing her throat nervously.

“Aren’t you supposed to be… interrogating that thing?” she asked. “I mean, killing her now would be something of a waste, right?”

Robin leapt off Simia as if she were aflame, running a hand through his long white hair and only now realizing he was drenched with sweat. A wave of nausea threatened to overcome him, and he forced himself to focus.

“Where is Grima?” he asked, his voice emotionless.

“Your true form is… subjugating Valentia,” Simia answered instantly, looking up again.

“Stop that, I’m not Grima,” Robin sighed. “And Ylisse?”

“Your spawn were… left in charge of the… Ylissean continent,” Simia supplied hopefully. “You intended it… as a test for them…”

“Them? As in plural?” Robin asked, before waving his question away. “Forget it, not important right now. What about Valm?”

“Valm is… already dead,” Simia said, a proud and bloody smile rising to her face. “You entrusted me… personally to… finish the extermination. I have done so… master. I have followed… your order... so please, do… not send me from… your sight.”

“Stop. That,” Robin repeated. “The other Deadlords?”

“Spread out in… Ylisse and… Valentia,” Simia said, looking back down.

“This seems a l-little easy,” Arya stammered. “How do we know that she’s telling the truth?”

“What does she have to hide?” Femi spat. “From the sounds of things Grima’s already almost won. Why hide that now?”

“Probably doesn’t hurt that she still thinks I’m Grima’s avatar,” Robin sighed, leaning back against the ship’s railing. “To think this spread as far as Valentia…”

The three of them took a moment to process this, the only sounds the slow, steady drumbeat of the refugees footsteps as they embarked the ship and the gentle slap of the waves against the Dreadnaught’s hull. Simia shifted, studying first Robin and then the two girls at his side.

“And the Ylissean Exalt?” Robin asked after a moment.

“She was… the test,” Simia said, smiling again. “The spawn that… slayed the Exalt… would earn your favor.”

“At least she’s still alive,” Robin sighed, sagging with relief.

“W-we’re going to go see her, right?” Arya asked suddenly.

“We will,” Robin nodded. “But she won’t be the Lucina that we left behind. Make sure you remember that. She won’t be your instructor, or my… my wife…”

He had to take a deep breath, closing his eyes to compose himself.

“Did you learn what you wanted to?” Femi asked.

Robin nodded, glaring down at Simia again.

“I did. The important stuff, anyway. We have no further use for this… thing,” he said, scorn dripping from his voice.

Simia, for her part, froze, her shocked face staring plaintively up at Robin.

“I can… still be of… use!” she promised. “Please, master! I can… still serve! Do you desire… proof? I will kill… everyone here! I will kill the… human cancer! I will slay… your disciples! Prove my worth! I will-”

Her rant was cut off as Robin planted his foot on top of her back, forcing the air from her lungs. He reached for Raziel slowly this time, eyes narrowing as Simia desperately tried to twist to see him again.

“I can… still fight,” she said, her voice coming out as a ragged whisper now.

This gave Robin pause, an idea forming in the back of his mind. He let his hand drop from the dagger on his back again, crossing his arms and cupping his chin with his hand in contemplation. It was a crazy idea. Most, his closest friends included, would no doubt label it insane. They would call his trustworthiness into question. But looking around, Robin could see that this broken world was dangerously short on one thing: fighters.

“Sir? Sir Robin, why are you hesitating?” Femi asked.

“Shhh! He’s thinking!” Arya shushed her friend.

“Femi, look the other way,” Robin said, stepping back off of the Risen. “You too, Arya.”

“No,” Femi declared, a frown creasing her delicate features. “No, no, no! I was given orders to make sure you didn’t cast any spells, and I’m going to make sure you don’t cast any spells! No!”

Beside her Arya nodded vigorously, presenting a unified front.

“What were you planning?” his student added. “You can kill her- it, with a- your dagger just as easy. Or do we have to… burn Deadlords?”

Robin shook his head, gesturing wide around them.

“Look around girls,” he said sadly. “These people, they have nothing left. No fire in them. No hope. No strength. If it comes down to a fight, we’ll be carrying them, and soon we won’t even have the energy to do that. We need strong fighters if we-”

“You are not suggesting what I think you are,” Femi cut in, eyes narrowing.

Robin smirked, dropping his arms and clasping his hands behind his back.

“Funny. You’re a lot more respectful to Tharja,” he said with a playful grin.

“She’s not crazy!” Femi snapped. “You want to let this… this abomination live? You think you can convince it to help us!?”

“No, I think I can force it to serve us,” Robin corrected her.

“How?” Arya asked softly.

“You’re not seriously entertaining this hare-brained… you can’t be serious!” Femi said.

“A binding spell for a familiar,” Robin explained. “With my… ugh… instinctive understanding of Risen I can cast a binding spell and make her my familiar. Probably.”

“You sound so confident,” Femi snarked. “Do you even know how to do the spell? The rite for a permanent binding is far more complex than the simple temporary one.”

“Yes, little-miss-perfect-mage, I do, actually,” Robin said, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been friends with your teacher for a long time, I’ve picked up a lot that she doesn’t know about. My brain happens to be something of a sponge for information like that. I trust you have the ritual chalk and reagents?”

“You’re actually planning on doing this?” Femi asked, deflating a little.

“Of course,” Robin scoffed.

“Unnecessary…” Simia spoke up from the ground. “I serve you… master. Always.”

“Yeah, until the actual Grima is floating above our heads and you realize you were wrong about me,” Robin snapped over his shoulder. “Shut up and sit there quietly until we’re ready for you. Femi. Chalk and reagents. Now, please.”

“How will you cast the spell?” Arya asked. “Lady Tharja said that casting any more magic would kill you.”

Robin rolled his eyes again, holding out his hand and flexing his fingers a little. With a pop a small tongue of blue-black flame leapt from the center of his palm, burned for a few seconds, then dissipated. He had to grin to hide the wave of vertigo even the small spell caused him, though, playing it off with a veneer of his usual confidence.

“Do I look dead to you?” he asked.

“No,” Femi declared. “No, I won’t help you do this.”

“I can do it without you,” Robin pointed out. “A temporary pact to start with, then a permanent one once I get the materials for the rite myself.”

Femi was silent for a moment before groaning loudly.

“Lady Tharja will kill me!” she pleaded.

“No she won’t,” Robin laughed. “She may hex you, but you’re too important to kill right now.”

“But you just almost died!” Femi persisted. “What if something goes wrong and you do die?”

“Then she’ll probably kill you,” Robin shrugged. “Come on. Sometimes on the battlefield you have to take a gamble to win.”

“I… I say we do it,” Arya said suddenly. “We could use the extra fighting power. Plus it would be good to have some help that doesn’t need to eat or sleep. Right?”

“Right!” Robin laughed, clapping his hands. “You’re out-voted, Femi.”

“I could go to Lady Tharja,” the young mage threatened weakly. “Tell her about what’s happening, what you’re planning…”

“And by the time you got back I’d be done,” Robin said.

Femi let out another groan, scrunching her fingers through her hair in sheer frustration.

“Fine! Fine! Damn it all, fine! I’ll help!” she finally relented. “But on one condition! You can’t be part of the pact!”

Robin and Arya both blinked a little, taken aback.

“That… kind of defeats the purpose,” Robin pointed out.

“Your soul is already damaged,” Femi said. “Lady Tharja said so herself. I won’t go willingly adding any additional strain to it. It has to be one of us.”

“I serve only… the master!” Simia hissed from the ground.

“You’ll do as you’re told,” Robin snapped over his shoulder.

The older man seemed to think this over for a moment before sighing and shaking his head.

“No,” he decided at last. “No, I can’t do that to either of you.”

“But you’d do it to yourself?” Femi spat. “Lady Tharja was right, your martyr complex is ridiculous.”

“I do not have a martyr complex!” Robin snapped. “You die twice and see how you fare!”

“I’m a Dark Mage!” she shot back. “I’m not afraid of death!”

“Well you should be! Not everyone gets a second chance like I did!”

“So you’d waste it!? Throw your life away, for what!? The chance to have a pet Deadlord!?”

“Enough!” Arya shouted above them. “I’ll do it! I’ll form the pact!”

 Robin and Femi both looked up at her declaration, both wearing varied expressions of surprise. As Femi opened her mouth to protest further a new voice cut in, its owner leaning casually against the railing behind them.

“I think I speak for everyone else on the boat when I say that this is a bad idea,” the local soldier, Victor said. “Pretty sure none of us are very partial to sharing a boat with the monster that’s been hunting us for years now.”

“Victor. I didn’t see you during the attack,” Robin said diplomatically, turning to face the younger man.

“Had to get the water properly secured,” Victor shrugged. “And see to it the horses were properly stowed. Going to need meat for the journey, after all. Don’t change the subject. That thing. Off the ship. Now. Preferably in pieces.”

“He’s right!” another of the soldiers, one shepherding the civilians below deck, called.

“That thing deserves to die,” a third man grunted from the gangplank.

Robin nodded, seemingly considering this. He stepped forward, away from the two girls and the Risen, eying Victor and the other soldiers. Behind them the civilians kept their eyes down, continuing their march as if nothing was amiss. Or perhaps trying very hard to pretend that nothing was amiss.

“Okay then, I think a little demonstration is in order,” he said. “Victor, you and the other guards draw your weapons and all come at me at once. Don’t hold back.”

The Valmese man blinked, trading glances with his cohorts before shrugging and drawing his sword. The other two did the same, the man at the gangplank appearing to struggle to hold his weapon up. Robin just shook his head, not even drawing his own weapon. The three men charged at once, although it would be more accurate to say they shambled much like the mindless masked Risen their movements were so slow and weak. Robin barely tried, batting their weapons aside with his open hands, before spinning and snatching the sword right out of Victor’s hands. They locked eyes for a moment before Robin smiled again, flipping the weapon around in his grip and holding it out to Victor pommel-first. The young soldier accepted his weapon back with a sheepish look, and Robin smirked.

“That’s why we need that thing,” the tactician explained coolly. “I could do that, and I’m sick. Far from my best.”

He turned back towards the girls, and as he took a step Robin was overcome with an intense wave of nausea, bringing him to one knee as he coughed up more blood. He waved off the girls’ concern, grinning as he forced himself back up. Behind him Victor waved the other guards back to their duties, the civilians barely even registering this new development. The Valmese man offered Robin his arm, which he gratefully took.

“Arya,” he said, wiping his chin with the back of one hand as he leaned on Victor. “Are you sure? I can’t force you to do this. I can’t even ask you to.”

“I’m volunteering,” she said firmly.

“Alright. Femi, would you be so kind as to start on the magic circle?” he prompted.

The young mage let out a long sigh before reaching into her pouch for her ingredients. It didn’t take long for a decent sized pentagramic magic circle to form on the deck, Femi’s practiced hands making short work of the complex wards and sigils. Tharja had always said that the young mage girl was a genius when it came to Dark Magic theory, but now that Robin could see her in action he realized just how true Tharja’s comments had been. Robin contributed, too, pointing out where she should change the symbols to suit their particular needs.

“That line there, change that a little to open the Deadlord’s mana supply,” he said. “Take it from the air. There’s enough of Grima’s taint floating around she shouldn’t have to draw anything from Arya.”

“I still don’t like it,” she admitted as she worked. “I see the logic behind what you’re saying, but I don’t agree with it.”

“Me either,” Victor piped up.

“Yeah, I know,” he sighed. “Oh, there. Change the direction of that ward. It’s a lot stronger-willed than a bird or a cat. Easier to leave the free will intact to a degree.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Femi asked, glancing up before shaking her head. “You know what? Forget it, I’m not even going to try to argue anymore.”

“Now you’re learning,” Robin chuckled. “Take notes, Vic.”

“Please. Never call me that,” the soldier shuddered.

“I think we’re just about done,” Femi sighed.

“Hold up, add another line to the western side there,” Robin instructed, giving her the details for a small addendum.

“What’s this for?” Femi asked as she worked.

“This particular section will fix the thing’s damned halting speech,” Robin laughed. “It drives me nuts. There, perfect.”

Robin nodded, giving the circle one last glance before lifting himself off of Victor’s shoulder. He crossed to the silent Deadlord, looking up at him with a forlorn expression, and picked her up by the back of her armor. Then he bodily tossed her into the circle. The Risen let out a small pained gasp as she landed, looking back up at Robin with those damned yearning eyes.

“Okay, Femi, hit it,” Robin groaned.

The young mage nodded, the circle beneath the Deadlord flaring with red light as the spell started to take.

“Please, lord…” Simia gasped, struggling to turn to face Robin. “I serve… only you!”

“So does she,” Robin said coldly, pointing to Arya. “You just got bumped down the food chain.”

There was another flash, and Femi motioned Arya forward. She knelt by her friend, placing her hands in the magic circle and locking eyes with the Risen. Then, all at once, the light faded.

“Okay, it’s done,” Femi sighed, leaning back on her haunches.

“Good,” Robin sighed, leaning back against the railing again. “Now, help me come up with a way to explain this to everyone-”

“Robin!”

“Well, damn, that was fast,” Robin groaned, taking a deep breath before turning. “Look, there’s a good explanation for… uh… who… Say’ri!?”

Standing before a very befuddled Robin was an older version of Say’ri, but a version that looked like she had been dragged through hell and back. Her regal bearing was gone, replaced by a harsh coldness in her eyes that stung at Robin to see. Her pretty face was marred by scars, half of it covered by a rough leather patch that couldn’t quite hide the old injury. He took all of this in in the second he had before the woman barreled into his chest, wrapping her arms around him and knocking them both to the ground in a heap.

“Robin!” she repeated, her grip almost choking the life from him. “Fie, love, I thought never to see you again! You died! I… I…”

Whatever else the once-monarch was going to say was lost when she was forcibly hefted off of the tactician, a glowering Simia using both of her bound hands to drag the older woman up and toss her backwards. To Say’ri’s credit she caught herself, landing on her feet and glaring with a surprising amount of animosity at the Deadlord.

“Release the master, woman,” Simia hissed, her faltering speech apparently now repaired as Robin had intended.

“Deadlord!” Say’ri snarled, hands going immediately for her sword. “I don’t know how you managed to sneak onto my ship, but-”

“Stop!” Robin called above them. “Stop, for the love of Naga!”

The sudden shout caused him to roll over, holding himself up on his elbows as his body violently shuddered in an intense coughing fit. When he was done Robin sat up, wiping the bloody spittle from his lips with the back of his hand. Simia was at his side in a moment, her ashen features creased with worry. Another emotion Robin was sure Risen incapable of.

“Master, are you-”

Robin cut her off, roughly hauling himself up using the Risen’s shoulder as a crutch.

“Call me that again and I’ll take your ability to talk away,” he growled. “Say’ri. It’s good to see you again, but I’m not-”

Robin was brought up short as he glanced up, Say’ri’s sword pointing directly at his nose.

“I… think I have some explaining to do,” he said slowly, holding up his hands.

* * *

 

“Robin, even for you this is… irresponsible,” Chrom sighed almost an hour later.

The Exalt stood with his eyes tightly shut, massaging the skin between them. The rest of the Shepherds, as well as the majority of the surviving Valmese leadership stood, sat or otherwise lounged around on the massive forecastle deck of the Dreadnaught as the last of the civilians boarded. At the head of the deck Robin, Arya and Femi stood with the Deadlord Simia. The two girls looked sufficiently chastised, but Robin scoffed and crossed his arms.

“Yes, what was I thinking, acquiring us a soldier that doesn’t need to eat, sleep, that doesn’t feel pain and is totally loyal,” the tactician said sarcastically.

“Do you even hear yourself right now?” Cordelia asked, frowning. “You sound exactly like Validar did.”

Robin opened his mouth to rebut, but closed it again after a second.

“Damn. That… that hurt,” he smirked after a few seconds. “But you raise a good point. Chrom, catch.”

The bigger man glanced up in time to snatch the dagger that had been tossed at him out of the air, a sheathed Raziel resting in his fist.

“If something goes south and I lose it, that’s the best way to-“

“Don’t you dare say it!” the Exalt thundered, tossing the ancient weapon to the floor.

“It’s called being prepared,” Robin said calmly. “Insurance. You never did understand the concept.”

“I shouldn’t need ‘insurance’ against my best friend!” Chrom said angrily.

“You always were soft on the people closest to you,” Robin smirked.

“I’ll take care of it,” Gaius announced suddenly. Both men glanced up, the thief reclining against the deck’s railing already twirling the ancient dagger between his fingers. “If Bubbles loses it again… I’ll take care of it.”

“Gaius, you can’t…” Cherche said, trailing off.

“Seems like a good plan to me,” Sully huffed.

“Seconded,” Idallia piped up from next to Basilio, the big Khan remaining silent.

Standing a small way away from the two Khans Galle watched impassively, his face expressionless as he watched the proceedings. Robin hadn’t spoken to his former student since his little explosion during their previous group meeting, and while he was worried about Galle he knew he shouldn’t have been. Galle was, without a doubt, the best student he’d had. Robin would never say as much out loud, but the results spoke for themselves. Galle would cope. Even if the boy didn’t realize it himself.

“Well, now that we have all that squared away,” Robin said, turning to the patiently waiting Valmese.

“Oh, are… are you done?” Victor asked, quirking a brow. “We still have time. Care to argue any parentages while we’re at it? Who slept with who’s wife?”

“Quiet, Victor,” an older man said, his voice dripping fatigue.

It took Robin a few seconds to place the familiar-looking man. It was King Liung of Chengshi. The years had not been any kinder to the fiery old monarch than they had Say’ri, his expressive face lined and his shoulders bowed as if under an incredible weight. He moved with a heavy limp, filthy bandages wrapped around his right calf.

“I do so love watching manspawn quarrel, though,” Nirath chuckled.

Say’ri stood silently, glaring impassively at Simia with her arms crossed.

There was another girl with them, and while it was hard to tell under the grime and the malnutrition she seemed to be similar in age to Galle and Arya. Her long blonde hair was filthy, tied away from her face in a rough ponytail, and her beaten and scored blood red armor spoke of countless battles. On her head was a matching red circlet, two small nub horns protruding from the red steel around her forehead. From the armor alone Robin could tell she was Valmese, but there was something else familiar about her, too.

“We’re taking them with us, at least,” the girl said, her tone similar to Liung’s. “But that… thing…”

“It should be destroyed. Immediately,” Say’ri spoke up.

“Okay, one thing at a time. I know you, you and you,” Robin said, pointing to Liung, Say’ri and Nirath before turning to the girl. “But you I don’t know.”

“I don’t know the wolf-queen, though,” Chrom said, stepping forward. “And since we have the time, I’d say that proper introductions all around are in order.”

“Hah! You always were the diplomatic one,” Liung chuckled, shaking his head.

“Is he talkin’ about the same Chrom?” Vaike asked, turning to Cherche.

“If this world is similar to the one that I came from he would have been much older when Ylisse invaded Valm,” Owain supplied.

“We all already mostly know each other,” Robin groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Be that as it may, we will do this right,” Chrom declared. “I am Exalt Chrom the First of Ylisstol, sovereign of the Haildom of Ylisse. These are my Shepherds.”

“Oh, I’m a Shepherd now, too?” Idallia scoffed, crossing her arms.

“Shut up, girl, read the mood,” Basilio rumbled, stepping forward. “I’m Khan Regnant Basilio. This is the new East Khan, Idallia.”

“Charmed,” the slight Ylissean-born Khan drawled.

Liung nodded, an amused smirk on his face as he stepped forward to Chrom. “If we are doing this properly… I am Liung, former king of Chengshi. You seem to know Say’ri. This is Nirath, leader of the last of the Wolfskin tribes.”

“Queen,” Nirath spoke up. “My people may be scattered and my forest gone, but I am still a Queen, manspawn.”

“By your people’s standards, perhaps,” the blonde girl muttered, rolling her eyes.

“And this young flower is Lady Helia, heir to Walhart’s Imperial Valm. Or what’s left of it,” Liung finished.

Helia gave the Shepherds a terse nod, before zeroing back in on Chrom.

“Putting aside the matter of the Risen for now,” she said, pointedly glaring at Robin’s little group, “You say you are Exalt Chrom. Yet you look like a man half his age.”

“Exalt Chrom is dead,” Say’ri spat.

“The Chrom of this world is, yes,” Chrom nodded, frowning. “It’s, ah, rather hard to explain…”

“We are from an alternate world where Grima was defeated,” Idallia cut in. “In that world an insane mage transported us here, for what we don’t know. And now we’re trying to get back.”

Chrom turned to look at the former merchant, Basilio towering beside her clearly trying not to burst into laughter.

“Okay, perhaps it’s not that complicated after all,” Chrom shrugged. “Merely… farfetched.”

“Well, truth or not we can’t just leave you here,” Liung said.

“They speak truth,” Nirath supplied. “Or at least they believe that they do. Although this one does not smell like the Robin I remember.”

“Uh… thanks?” Robin quirked his head.

“You really defeated him? You killed Grima?” Helia asked, her voice hushed.

“We did,” Chrom nodded. “Robin and I both. Together.”

“I’m sure we can do it again,” Robin shrugged. “What’s a horde of angry, undead monsters against two Awakened heroes, right?”

“So modest,” Idallia muttered, earning a snort from Galle.

“Then if we can get these ships to Ylisse we have hope,” Liung sighed, a small smile rising to his filthy face.

“Maybe,” Chrom said hesitantly.

“Then make ready!” Liung declared, his voice carrying in the still gloom. “You will be treated as honored guests! Victor! Prepare cabins for the Shepherds! As many as they need!”

“Y-yes, Lord Liung, sir!” Victor stammered, snapping to attention before bolting off.

“We appreciate it, Liung,” Chrom said. “Truth be told, we weren’t sure how we were going to get back to Ylisse in the first place. And we haven’t eaten anything in days.”

“Well, we don’t have much, but you are welcome to the same rations as the rest of us,” Liung said.

“Just hold your nose and they don’t taste as bad,” Helia offered with a small grin. “And if you find mold be thankful for the extra nutrients.”

Chrom barked out a laugh, the groups beginning to drift away, conversation among the Shepherds picking up again before Say’ri’s shout halted them.

“Hold!” the Chon’sinian Queen declared, glaring at Simia again. “What of the… creature?”

“I guess ‘I’ll put her on a leash’ won’t cut it?” Robin asked with a slight grin.

* * *

 

The next few weeks passed as a blur of inactive boredom for Robin. Much of his time was spent split between resting in the cabin he shared with Arya, Femi, Tharja and Ita, or wandering around the gargantuan ship.

Robin had to admit one day as he meandered around the outer edge of the ship that Valmese Dreadnaughts were truly an engineering marvel. The Valmese fleet had been gigantic to begin with in their own time, but clearly the Western shipwrights had perfected their craft even further in the future. Hundreds of people were cooped up in the holds, far more than any Ylissean or Plegian ship would have been able to carry. Far more than even ten Ylissean or Plegian ships could carry.

He moved aside as a small procession of refugees shuffled past under the watchful eyes of a pair of Liung’s soldiers. He spared the men a nod, smiling encouragingly at the huddled refugees as they passed. The first thing Robin did was organize a rotating ‘exercise walk’ for any of the civilians with the energy to still move about the deck. Being cooped up in the hold non-stop until they reached Ylisse would be disastrous for the refugees. Dysentery, scurvy, not to mention all the myriad little infections that they would get were going to run rampant no matter what they did, but Robin could do his best to try to alleviate the worst of it. Plus, by keeping those with energy moving they would keep them distracted. It didn’t appear that the refugees had any fight left in them at all, so Robin was confident that they wouldn’t be fighting amongst each other, but it would be better not to take the chance.

In the first week alone there had been nearly fifty deaths among the refugees, the bodies of the dead respectfully laid to rest at sea. There had simply been too many weak and infirm who had attempted the desperate flight to the coast. Apparently many more had died during the great evacuation, and there had been further deaths since, too. Disease, fatigue, malnutrition, all these factors had weakened the people to an almost enfeebled state. Robin had no doubt there would be even more among the dead before they reached their destination. Maribelle, the closest thing they had to a priest, had officiated funeral rites for every single one, the Magistrate not even flinching in her duty.

Robin continued on his own aimless walk, glancing up at the overcast sky. The first sign that they were escaping had been when those with the keenest eyes among their number had been able to make out individual clouds above them. Eventually, as they continued to travel east, the rest of them could pick out the lines of the clouds, too. He, Owain and Arya had spent almost an entire day after that lying on the deck, looking up at the clouds and trying to make out shapes. Then, a week after that, someone had pointed out that it was getting brighter and darker at regular intervals. They had actual day-night cycles again. There had been much exhausted rejoicing at this revelation, the number of refugees applying for the exercise walks almost tripling at the time. Still, though, the sun was weak, and still glowed a deep, mournful crimson color.  But it was getting brighter.

Of course, the thing Robin had been most grateful for was the return of his vitality the further from Valm they travelled. He was in no way back to one hundred percent, but he didn’t feel like he was going to keel over at any moment, and he’d stopped coughing up blood. He was still occasionally beset by random bouts of dizziness and nausea, but the tactician doubted those would go away while they were still in this world.

Climbing up a set of stairs to the main deck he came up to the wide open space, stopping a moment to survey the various groups spread out and catch his breath. On all the other ships he’d travelled on in his life he had taken notice of the organized chaos of the sailors as they want about their tasks, caring for the ship and their cargo. Here, though, the refugee crew sat in groups, watching with the same sense of exhausted lethargy as the rest. Even the soldiers were beginning to tire, the guards on deck sitting with the sailors and watching the horizon with blank stares.

A number of the Shepherds, too, had taken to spending their time on the deck rather than be cooped up in the claustrophobic confines of their cabins. Sully and Vaike had set aside a section of deck as a training ground, little more than a large circle drawn in charcoal that they could get some exercise in. Robin supposed that the familiarity of having a dedicated training ground probably helped relax them a little. Usually he could find Chrom up here, too, but today Sully and Vaike occupied the training circle alone, the deputy Knight Commander having forgone her usual armor facing Vaike in her sleeveless riding gear. Already they had drawn a small crowd, a few of the bored soldiers sitting or standing to watch along with a trio of Nirath’s younger wolves. Basilio stood with his arms crossed at the edge of the circle, the two other Shepherds looking to him expectantly.

“I want to see a good clean fight,” the older man declared. “No weapons, hands and feet only. Keep it above the belt, open-hand strikes, no elbows or knees and no Chrom Specials. Now go to your sides and when you come back I want to see something to entertain these poor sods.”

Robin had to smirk at the disappointed groans from the two combatants as they moved to opposite ends of the circle. ‘Chrom Special’ was the nickname that the current Shepherds had given to the act of headbutting a foe, thanks to the Exalt’s penchant for using the move during duels. Robin was just sorry Chrom wasn’t present; he loved watching his friend squirm in embarrassment every time someone mentioned a ‘Chrom Special’.

He turned away from the ring as Sully charged Vaike, the axeman giving a surprised yelp as she tackled him to the deck. Robin had seen this a hundred times now. By now anyone else besides Vaike would have learned to side-step her opening charge. Instead he ignored the sounds of Vaike being pummeled behind him and scoped out the deck again, eyes settling on another familiar sight; Olivia and Arya training together.

As much as she had hated to admit it, Lucina had once confided in Robin that Arya was ill-suited for her heavy Ylissean sword style. The Plegian girl lacked the necessary musculature for it thanks to the years of malnutrition she had endured. In short, she would just never be big enough to handle a Ylissean broadsword. It had worried Robin for a time. His own style was largely a combination mishmash of other styles and improvisation, unsuitable for teaching to a beginner like Arya. At least by learning steps from Olivia she was learning something more suited to someone with her slight build. Combining that with the basics that Lucina had taught her would be the best thing for the girl’s swordplay right now.

Deciding to leave them to it, mostly because he knew how easy it was to throw Olivia off her groove if she found out someone was watching her, Robin turned to head towards the forecastle deck and check the horizon himself. As he walked, though, he realized that he wasn’t the only one watching the pair.

“Victor? Everything alright?”

The young Valmese man glanced up, a blank expression on his face before he nodded.

“Yeah, fine,” he said, going back to watching the girls. “Just thinking.”

He was leaning against the railing of the upper deck, his arms crossed and a thoughtful expression on his face.

“As long as thinking is all you do,” Robin warned, his light tone taking the bite out of the words.

“You can relax,” the younger man scoffed. “I have enough trouble talking to the girls from around here. Women that beautiful? Yeah, I have no hope.”

He went silent for a moment, his gaze taking on a far-away quality before he spoke again.

“Do you think… we’ll all look like that again one day?” he asked quietly.

Robin couldn’t help but smirk, quirking his head. “If you grow hips like Olivia I’d be a little concerned.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Victor chuckled. “I mean that… whole. Do you think we can recover that much?”

“Of course,” Robin said, smiling. “Look at Arya. When I found her a year ago she didn’t look much better than any of you. No offense.”

“None taken,” Victor grinned. “She’s still a little scrawny, though.”

“Give it time,” Robin said encouragingly. “It’s like growing a tree. Doesn’t happen overnight. Just remember, look but don’t touch.”

“Aye-aye, oh hero tactician,” Victor smirked.

Robin gave a groan, running a hand down his face. “Owain just couldn’t keep his mouth shut, could he?”

“To be fair it does suit you,” Victor laughed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Robin sighed, waving the comment off. “I’m going to keep moving. You good?”

“Yup,” Victor sighed. “Meant to be on guard duty anyway. Not much to guard out here, though.”

“Stay sharp,” Robin warned. “You never know when a giant dragon will fall down on top of you.”

Victor instantly perked up, eyes roaming the sky. “He won’t… actually do that, right?”

Robin just laughed, shaking his head and leaving the soldier to his guard duty. He took a few meandering steps away, eyes roaming the deck again. For a moment his gaze lingered on Arya, a satisfied smile rising to his lips as he watched her progress through the same movements Olivia was. She was a little stiff, a little slow compared to the dancer, but Robin was happy to see that she was improving. Then he was walking again, his path taking him past where Nirath and her pack had made themselves comfortable.

Once they had reached open waters and were safely away from the land Nirath had claimed a corner of the main deck and had one of her remaining followers set up her furs. It was just like Robin remembered her den back in the forest in Valm, so many years ago now. The old wolf had perched herself in her human form atop a pile of old rags and furs, and had barely moved since. Robin had counted barely thirty wolves that split their time lounging around their Queen or pacing in the holds. Many who had died during the first week had been members of her pack, exhausted from defending the refugees from the Risen alongside the Shepherds. For the first few nights the mournful howls of the shapeshifters had kept Robin awake.

Not surprisingly Ita sat at Nirath’s side, reclining against the edge of the Queen’s mound in her human form, too. Robin had gathered that this was a position of high honor among their tribe, and for the entire voyage so far Ita had been almost insufferably pleased with herself.

“Robin,” Nirath called as he approached. “Checking in?”

“Just bored,” he admitted.

“How’s your little pet settling in?” Nirath chuckled, weakly glancing up at him.

Robin was surprised at how frail the wolf queen looked. Her skin seemed thin around her sunken eyes and jutting cheekbones, giving her an almost skeletal appearance.

“Tied up in the hold,” Robin shrugged. “Beyond that I don’t care.”

Nirath gave a low, rumbling chuckle, Ita smirking as well.

“How are you feeling, anyway?” Robin asked, crouching down in front of the Queen’s mound, his voice low.

“I am tired,” Nirath sighed. “I will die soon, manspawn. It is only a matter of time.”

Robin’s gaze flicked over to Ita, but the way that the younger wolf had shifted her gaze away meant that this wasn’t news to her.

“Is there nothing we can do?” Robin asked.

Nirath barked a laugh, closing her eyes and smiling. “You are an odd human. There is nothing that can be done. I have already made my peace. My people will fade from this world, just as I have. Just as the Taguel have. It is enough to know that we thrive in your own world.”

“And we always will,” Ita promised, unusually somber.

The old wolf queen gave another weak chuckle, turning a maternal smile on the younger wolf. “If all the runts are as strong as you I have little doubt.”

Ita almost seemed to inflate with pride for a moment, before frowning and cocking her head to the side. Robin closed his eyes and sighed through his nose, already very familiar with that expression.

“What’s wrong?” he asked dejectedly.

“I hear something,” Ita growled, rising slowly to her feet.

* * *

 

In the dark hold of the great Valmese Dreadnaught Arya stood, her hand lingering above the latch that would open the hatch to the Deadlord’s prison. Simia had been confined to this hold, under constant guard, since they had set out. Even now, two of the Valmese soldiers sat on stools facing the door, while one of Nirath’s wolves lounged in its canine form, curled up next to the door silently watching her.

Arya took a breath to steady her nerves. Ever since she had been bound to the Deadlord she had felt… different. The most obvious example had been the dreams. Hazy, incoherent dreams of battle and slaughter, each night waking Arya up in a cold sweat. Then while she was awake there were the mood swings so severe even she had noticed them. Fortunately, Arya was naturally a very meek young woman, so it was easy enough to clamp down on the bouts of irrational anger, but they still scared her. There had been no physical signs yet, something that both Femi and Tharja were keeping a close eye for, and even though it was embarrassing to have to parade in front of them in nothing but her smallclothes every few days it did make her feel better that they were keeping an eye on her.

With a final deep breath she threw the latch back, the clacking sound of iron against rough wood almost deafening in the quiet hold. She closed the door behind her, becoming almost wholly enveloped in darkness, and outside she heard the guard get up and lock the hold again. Deciding she didn’t want to hold this conversation in darkness Arya cast a small fire spell, a flame the size of a candle’s dancing sullenly above her hand.

The magic flame revealed the Deadlord Simia, kneeling with her back against the wall, bound and chained, her head bowed and her face hidden by shadows and her lank, thick hair.

Arya swallowed her fear, advancing slowly into the hold. There was an odd stink in the air, and in a strange way it reminded her of the desert. The hold smelled of heat and sand, of blood and shimmering air, and in a way, Arya found it almost nostalgic. It smelled like Plegia, as if Simia herself was a part of the country, of the desert.

“Why have you come, whelp?”

The student tactician froze at the sound of Simia’s voice, like wind and dry leaves in a dead valley. She had to swallow again, hesitating a moment as she tried to work some moisture back into her dry mouth.

“The dreams…” she began, trailing off.

Why had she come? Of course, boredom had been a factor; she could only read what little material they had salvaged from the Mage’s Tower so many times. But Arya had felt drawn here. Not by some unseen force, but by duty. She had chosen to be bound to this creature, this Risen, and aside from occasionally sticking her head into the hold to ensure that Simia was still bound she hadn’t had anything to do with the thing. Except for the dreams. Except for the mood swings.

Simia glanced up, her dully glowing eyes piercing in the gloom as she regarded Arya with a bored expression.

“Speak,” she said, her voice a whispered rasp in the dark. “You serve the master. Do not hesitate. Do not show weakness. Do not show doubt. Speak.”

“What… are the dreams I’m having? Since I was bound to you?” Arya managed to stammer.

“I cannot see into your head,” Simia almost seemed to grin.

Arya frowned, her brow furrowing slightly. “The dreams of violence. Of death. Are they from our pact?”

“It would be more productive to ask the mage,” Simia pointed out, spitting the word ‘mage’ as if it were a curse.

“I would but…” Arya trailed off again.

This time Simia was silent, clearly waiting for the girl to finish.

“They feel like memories,” she confided quietly.

“Maybe they are,” Simia said. “Maybe you are hallucinating. I do not know. Nor do I care.”

Arya knelt down now, her gaze level with the baleful glow of Simia’s.

“So what do you care about?” she asked curiously.

“Killing you and regaining my freedom,” Simia growled.

“But you can’t,” Arya said, her tone a statement, not a question.

“Yes, thanks to your damnable mage,” Simia spat.

Robin had been very insistent in explaining to Tharja, during that first night in their shared cabin space when she had cornered the man, that he had adjusted the binding spell to ensure no harm would come to either Arya or Femi. In theory, Simia should have been totally incapable of harming them. But Arya didn’t want to test said theory, so she stayed out of lunging distance.

“Even though these were Sir Robin’s orders?” Arya persisted.

This, finally, seemed to cause the Deadlord to hesitate, her head cocking as far as the chains around her neck would allow.

“Once I kill you I will have reminded the master of my worth,” Simia whispered, her glowing eyes fairly radiating malice. “He will forgive me. His spawn make better disciples anyway.”

A moment of understanding passed between the two as they locked gazes, neither willing to back down and show weakness. Arya understood the creature now, or at least had a better understanding of it. As for what Simia had gained… she wasn’t sure. But the Deadlord looked satisfied, at the least.

Just as she was about to ask if the Risen was uncomfortable the sound of the latch opening from outside made them both glance up, a shadow blocking the torchlight from the doorway. Simia sucked in a breath, though, attempting to sit up as straight as her bonds would allow.

“Arya? What are you… never mind, not important,” Robin said. “Come with me. There’s trouble topside and I don’t want this… thing out of my sight.”

“What’s happened?” Arya asked quickly, practically leaping to her feet. “Are we under attack?”

“I don’t think so,” Robin sighed, tossing her the keys to the Deadlord’s shackles. “We’ve found one of the other ships and it… doesn’t look good. They’re drifting, their masts are destroyed and they’re not responding to our hails. I’m going to go take a look. That’s coming with me.”

“So am I!” Arya declared.

Robin nodded, grinning and nodding at Simia. “Good. Leave its hands shackled and meet me on deck. Hopefully this is nothing, but I’m not taking any chances.”


	25. Chapter 25

The soft lapping of the waves against the side of the small rowboat and the occasional slap of oars on the water were the only sound that could be heard. A rowboat, almost comically undersized compared to the two behemoth Dreadnaughts to either side of it, a thought not lost on Robin as he knelt against the helm of the little boat.

Usually wind would be whipping through his hair, the sun beating down on them from above, the spray of the ocean waves making him squint as they approached their target. He felt none of that. There were no waves, no wind and no sun, and the lack of these three things made him realize, all over again, just how close their own world had come to calamity.

Behind him in the rowboat Robin’s team waited in near silence, the occasional grunt from Sully or Vaike as they worked the oars the only sound from the people. Gaius and Owain crouched behind him, both wearing spiked boots and holding climbing spikes in their fists, and would be the first ones onto the ship. Owain had a bundled rope ladder they would use to gain access to the monstrous ship cinched to his hip, Gaius a length of rope that they would use to secure the tiny rowboat. Ita and Arya flanked the shackled form of the Deadlord Simia, the grey-skinned Risen impassively studying the Dreadnaught as they got closer. Arya fidgeted nervously, clearly running through the relaxing and meditation techniques Robin had taught her, while Ita’s head lolled as if she could fall asleep at any moment. The final member of their group had been a total surprise to Robin; this world’s Say’ri sat, arms crossed and silently glaring at the back of Simia’s head with her single good eye, at the back of the boat. She had insisted, declaring she “couldn’t let that thing out of her sight” with a pointed glare at Simia. Robin wouldn’t begrudge an extra set of hands, but he worried about her fitness. Say’ri had always been stubborn in his own world, and had shrugged off wounds that would have killed most lesser warriors before, but with a lack of supplies and the added strain of the apocalypse…

There was a bump, and Robin jerked his head back around to see they had reached the Dreadnaught. Owain wordlessly brushed past him, digging in the spikes on his boots and searching for footholds as Gaius grinned and clapped a hand on the tactician’s shoulder.

“Look alive, Bubbles,” he whispered with a wink.

Robin rolled his eyes as the thief scrambled up the side of the ship after Owain, leaving the rest of the group to wait their turn. He took the chance to study the ship up close, marveling at how different the ship looked from the Dreadnaught they had come from. Barnacles and algae had grown on the towering side of the ship, and above them, stenciled in letters as tall as he was, were the words _Fata Obstant_ , the name of the Dreadnaught.

The rope ladder tumbled down towards them, Robin giving it a few quick yanks to test its integrity before nodding, satisfied. Ita came first, apparently wide awake now and effortlessly bounding up the ladder. Simia went next, slower than Ita due to her shackled wrists, but still made it up to the deck fast enough to make Robin consider doubling the weight of the shackles she wore. Arya came up, giving her teacher a small grin before she clambered up the side of the ship in a manner of seconds, Vaike scoffing as Sully gave a low, appreciative whistle. Robin rolled his eyes, ushering them forward. Vaike winked, clambering quickly and noisily up the ladder, clearly competing with Arya’s time. He had barely cleared the railing when Sully started up after him, just as fast but far quieter, even in her armor.

“ _Fata Obstant,_ ” Say’ri read over his shoulder. “It means ‘The Fates Oppose’. It seems… oddly fitting.”

“Does our Dreadnaught have a name?” Robin asked, craning his neck to look back at the newer ship.

Say’ri shook her head. “The ship, ‘twas in drydock half finished when we found it. We never christened it.”

“That’s such bad luck,” Robin chuckled.

Say’ri smirked, too, the edges of her lips crinkling her cheeks as if the expression were alien to her face.

“We had more important things to worry about,” she said softly, thin hands wrapping around the first of the rungs of the rope ladder.

In a few moments Robin was left standing alone on the rowboat, watching as Say’ri pulled herself up the ladder. He was glad she was talking to him again, to be honest. It felt now like he’d hurt her all over again, like he had in Valm all those years ago during the war. For the first week she had gone so far as to get up and leave a room whenever he entered, avoiding him utterly, but that had clearly been too much effort for the exhausted queen. She clearly didn’t want to hate him but couldn’t bring herself to fully trust him after binding the Deadlord to their side. In fact, it felt like a lot of people had lost trust in him for that, even some of the Shepherds. Sully watched him like a hawk now, and Vaike was far more subdued around him. Maribelle outright refused to meet his gaze, and Olivia was back to acting as timid around him as when they had first met. But still, the look in Say’ri’s eye trumped them all.

“I’m am not looking forward to her finding out who Grima’s Avatar is,” Robin grumbled to himself as began to climb after her. “It was bad enough when Lucina found out, and we’d only just started seeing each other… Say’ri’s going to flip. She might actually manage to kill me. And she looks scary in this timeline, too…”

“What are you mumbling about, Bubbles?” Gaius asked, reaching his hand down.

Robin glanced up, surprised to find he was already at the railing. The ginger thief looked down at him, one brow raised as he waited for his hand.

“Nothing,” Robin muttered, reaching up and letting the smaller man help him.

His feet hit the deck and he let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, straightening his coat and glancing around at the walkway as Gaius stepped back to give him space.

“Head in the game, man,” Gaius reminded him. “You good?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” Robin assured him. “I’m here now, all business.”

“You’ve never been all business before, this’ll be a treat,” the thief scoffed.

“Yeah, yeah, make with the scouting,” Robin groaned, rolling his eyes.

The smaller man just smirked, not even bothering with the stairs and simply reaching up, pulling himself up to the main deck and slithering bonelessly through the gaps in the railing. Robin watched with fascination; it wasn’t often he actually got to see Gaius work. In fact, the only time in recent history had been the raid on the Rommel estate in Themis. Aside from that, Gaius had been playing at soldier and tracker more than acting like an actual thief.

Deciding he wasn’t anywhere near limber enough to follow, Robin strode quickly up the nearest stairs onto the deserted deck. Sully and Vaike milled about as a pair, clearly aware they were only present as muscle and trying to stay out of the way near the railings. Say’ri, too, watched the others, although her single-eyed-gaze was harder to read than the Shepherds’. Ita was sniffing around the large grate that covered the cargo access, where the supplies would have been lowered down. Her ears occasionally twitched, but aside from that there was no further outward sign she was finding anything. Gaius had just joined Arya and Owain near the passageway that led bellow deck, the heavy door closed and apparently locked tight. Simia lingered near Arya’s shoulder, glaring pointedly at Say’ri, but said and did nothing else.

“Find anything?” he asked Ita as he walked past the wolf-woman.

“Nothing living,” she reported, spitting on the deck. “At least not that I can smell.”

“Can’t hear anything?” he persisted.

“I can’t be sure,” she shook her head, beaded hair clacking against itself. “I… have trouble filtering sounds on manspawn ships.”

“Alright,” Robin nodded, placing his finger and thumb in his mouth and giving a low whistle. “Vaike, take Ita and Say’ri and check the Captain’s Quarters on the main deck. I’ll take everyone else and check below.”

“I am not letting that thing out of my sight,” Say’ri snapped, pointing at Simia.

Robin opened his mouth to argue, but Owain surprised him by stepping forward and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll do it,” he nodded. “Keep an eye on her. She’s likely been through a lot.”

“Like you?” Robin asked lightly.

“Owain Dark is unbreakable,” the blonde man said, his voice and weak grin lacking any of his usual energy.

“Alright Say’ri, fall in, but play nice,” Robin relented. “Gaius, do we have an in?”

“Locked up tight from the inside,” the thief shrugged. “I picked this outer lock, but there must be a bolt or something inside.”

Sully scoffed, stepping forward. In one swift motion she brought her foot up and smashed through the door, shards of wood flying everywhere as the heavy door flew back into the entry. The smell that greeted them made them gag, so strong it even made Ita turn back and wrinkle her nose in disgust from across the deck.  Owain and Vaike looked questioningly to the wolf woman, but she shook her head and they continued towards the Captain’s Cabin.

Death. The scent of decomposition and death, like a physical force, rushed out to greet them. In the still air the scent of purification lingered near the open doorway, making them all gag.

Arya backed away, before promptly turning and throwing up all over the deck. Sully wrinkled her nose, but brought her sword up in a defensive stance all the same. Gaius shuffled backwards, breaths shallow coming from his mouth.

“Dammit Bubbles, not again,” he groaned.

 “Decay,” Sully reported, a sour look on the knight’s face. “At least a week old. Dammit, someone else cover the door for a second so I can put a mask on, too.”

“Impossible, they were barely a few hours ahead of us,” Robin shook his head. “Whatever happened would have had to have happened the moment they hit the water.”

“Who’s to say it didn’t?” Gaius asked, tying a bandana around his face to cover his mouth and nose before stepping to take Sully’s place while she did the same with a rag.

“D-do… you have any more of those?” Arya asked the thief quietly.

Say’ri stepped up next to Sully, ignoring the stink and peering around the taller woman into the darkened passage, before rounding on Simia.

“What did you do?” she hissed at the Deadlord.

“She’s been confined in the hold under guard since we picked her up,” Robin said. “And I know her skillset. Intimately. Something else did this.”

Simia inclined her head, as if to agree with Robin’s statement. Say’ri made an irritated sound, glaring at Robin before turning and taking a few steps away from the group.

“Keep an eye on her,” Robin muttered to Sully, stepping past her to the entry.

The tactician knelt down, reaching out and letting his hand hover just before touching the air inside the passage, as if he were stroking an invisible bubble with his fingertips. He sighed through his nose, standing and shaking his head.

“I’m not getting any passive readings. Unless I cast some kind of divining spell I’m not going to find anything else out,” he reported.

“No magic,” Arya piped up instantly.

“Yeah, I guess we do this the old-fashioned way, then,” Robin sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Gaius groaned.

“I will take point,” Say’ri volunteered, already moving to the door.

Robin stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, surprised for a moment at how brittle she felt beneath her sleeve. The Chon’sinian queen spun back, levelling a glare at him from her single remaining eye.

“Sully will take point because she has the armor,” Robin said, meeting her glare for glare.

“Ooh-rah,” Sully grunted, totally lacking in enthusiasm.

“Then Arya and the Deadlord, because Arya can make a light and I want to be able to keep an eye on the Deadlord myself,” Robin went on. “Then me and Gaius, because we don’t have armor, then you.”

“You do not trust me?” Say’ri hissed.

“I trust you to watch our backs,” Robin said levelly. “That should say something.”

They stared silently at each other for a moment before Say’ri sighed and looked away, nodding assent.

“Alright, in formation, move,” Robin said, turning to the open doorway again. “Objectives are simple: find survivors and find out what happened. Survivors are the priority. We can send more boats from the Dreadnaught if we need to. Arya, a light please.”

Gaius knelt down where Robin had as the rest of the group readied their weapons, a small magical flame dancing to life above Arya’s palm. The thief ran his fingers over the shattered edges of the doorway and shook his head, inspecting the walls inside the door and unable to find a reason why he hadn’t been able to subtly open it. No locks, no bolts, not even a bar across the door. Unbidden, a shudder ran down his spine.

“Not to be that guy, but I don’t like our odds, Bubbles,” the thief said quietly.

* * *

 

Galle let out a sigh, the gentle rocking of the Dreadnaught at open sea doing nothing for his nerves. His grip tightened on the railing of their nameless Dreadnaught, eyes narrowing as he watched the _Fata Obstant_ in the distance. About halfway down the deck Femi and Tharja were doing the same as he was, watching the errant ship in their path like he was. Although they were probably using some form of divining spells that he had never bothered to learn how to use. 

“Taking in the view? Hardly much else to do.”

The young tactician glanced over his shoulder as Idallia approached, the former merchant brushing her lilac hair from her face as she joined him.

“Thinking,” Galle replied, going back to watching the other ship.

“I hear that’s what you tacticians do,” the older woman drawled, leaning against the railing herself now and stretching her back.

“You’re bored, aren’t you?” Galle smirked without looking away from the _Fata Obstant_.

“No more so than anyone else,” Idallia scoffed. “I almost volunteered to join their little ‘mission’, but self-preservation got the better of me, I’m afraid.”

“I should be over there,” Galle said, his voice soft.

“Why? Do you have some sort of special skill that could possibly help them? Help the refugees?” Idallia asked, disinterestedly resting her face on her hand.

“That’s…” Galle mumbled, looking down.

“The right person for the right job, boy,” Idallia said, her tone still bored. “Focus less on what you could be doing and more on what you should be doing.”

“Oh? Lessons from the Ylissean Khan? I’m so lucky,” Galle grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Weren’t you trying to kill us a week ago?”

“No, I wanted to plunder the neighboring nation for all their untapped natural resources,” Idallia said, her eyes flicking to glare sidelong at the Plegian. “Admittedly, I may have made some comments in anger, but I did not mean them. My… late brother was the one that wanted to kill you all.”

“Oh yes, that makes all the difference,” Galle muttered.

“You are a very sarcastic little twerp, has anyone ever told you that?” Idallia huffed.

“A lot of people, actually,” Galle deadpanned.

“I never would have guessed,” Idallia smirked.

They glared at each other for a moment before Galle cracked, snorting as a smirk of his own rose to his face and he turned back to the _Fata Obstant_.

“Alright, you win,” he relented. “I’m a sarcastic twerp who’s standing here dwelling on things he can’t change. Now stop talking to me like I work for you.”

“You could, you know,” Idallia offered.

“I could what? Fly over there? Got wings?”

“Work for me, twerp,” she scoffed. “I’m Khan now. I could use a decent tactician or two.”

“Tempting,” Galle shrugged. “Once all of this bull wraps up and we’re home the thought of a nice desk job does seem appealing.”

“Think about it,” Idallia shrugged.

They both leaned in silence for a moment before Galle scoffed, grinning.

“Does this mean we’re friends now?”

“No.”

“Good, you hoity-toity Ylissean noble-types irritate me,” Galle scoffed.

“As you Plegian urchins annoy me,” Idallia smirked.

They both laughed, going back to watching the _Fata Obstant_ in silence, as Galle contemplated what the future would hold for him. If there was a future for him at all.

“Something’s bugging me,” Galle spoke up suddenly.

Idallia made a noncommittal sound, glancing over at the younger man out of the corner of her eye.

“That guy in the hood,” he explained, rolling his eyes. “In the crowd. Didn’t that robe look… familiar?”

“Get to the point, please,” Idallia deadpanned.

“Wow you are unpleasant,” Galle scoffed. “Clarus. I think it was Clarus.”

Idallia seemed to consider this for a moment before shaking her head.

“I doubt it,” Idallia said at length. “He was a coward, there is no way he would have thought of such an audacious plan.”

“Maybe you’re right…” Galle muttered.

“I usually am,” Idallia smirked.

“Recent evidence in Regna Ferox to the contrary,” Galle smirked back.

Idallia’s face fell, the merchant turning an icy glare on the tactician. He shrugged, grinning smugly as he bounced off the railing and began to head towards the stairs back up to the main deck.

“What, too soon? Your crazy brother cut off my girlfriend’s arm, I think I have a right to be a little sore.”

“Oh, you finally get a good shot in and decide to leave?” Idallia called after him.

“I’m going to go do something constructive and start searching the ship for our errant psychotic mage,” Galle answered. “If I’m right then he’s either here or on the _Fata Obstant_. And if he’s here, I want to be the first to know.”

“And if our ‘errant psychotic mage’ is on the other ship?” Idallia asked, moving to follow him.

Galle stopped for a moment halfway up the stairs, looking over his shoulder at the Fata Obstant in the distance.

“We just watched Robin single handedly tear apart an entire army the other day,” the younger man said, looking away and climbing the stairs. “Let him deal with the psycho.”

* * *

 

On the _Fata Obstant’s_ deck the larger of the two masts had fallen back against the quarter deck, crushing most of the building-sized deck and the cabins beneath it. Owain looked up at the wreck of the quarter deck, silently glad that they didn’t have to try to climb up there. The captain’s cabin was beneath the quarter deck, and while the main door had been crushed there wasn’t a wall alive that could stop Owain. His mother had always joked that he’d inherited that familial trait from his uncle.

Owain hesitated a moment, a small sad smile rising to his face at thoughts of his family.

“Yo, kid? Ya alright down there?”

He glanced up at Vaike’s question, the older Shepherd holding his hand out to help him up despite the fact that a good ten feet of distance still separated them. With a smirk Owain darted up the rest of the mast so he could grasp the other blonde man’s hand and allow himself to be pulled up.

“Thanks,” he said with a nod.

Vaike gave him a grin, slapping him on the back as Owain stepped past him. He then stumbled aside, Ita giving an irritated huff as she shoved the larger human.

“Move, manspawn,” the shape shifter added with a scowl.

Vaike grumbled, crossing his arms and frowning. “Y’know, for someone who followed Robin around a bunch you’re not very nice.”

Ita just sneered, pushing between the two humans towards where the mast had crushed the deck. Vaike heaved an angry sigh, rubbing the back of his head in frustration as he glanced sidelong at Owain, as if asking ‘what’re we going to do about her?’ Owain shrugged, grinning and moving towards the wall himself. He hadn’t missed the way the shape shifter had flinched when the other group had kicked in the door across the deck. Whatever they had uncovered had unnerved the fiery shifter. He could see it in her posture, in the way the fur on her tail bristled. Ita was nervous.

“Do you smell anything?” he asked, coming up behind her.

“Wood and two unwashed manspawn,” Ita huffed irritably.

Owain rolled his eyes. “No, I mean-”

“Nothing,” Ita answered over him. “I cannot smell anything alive in the cabins around us. I can smell…”

She paused to sniff, wrinkling her brow in disgust before spitting on the deck.

“The stink from below deck is distracting me,” she practically snarled.

Ita growled again, driving her fist into the nearby wall. The old boards cracked and gave, her fist making a decent sized dent. With another growl Ita crouched down next to the wall, her head lingering a few inches from the surface. Almost like she was sulking. Or hiding, like a hound in a thunderstorm. Owain sucked in a breath, moving to crouch down next to her as Vaike cautiously approached behind them.

“What did the others find, Ita?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know,” she snapped, refusing to look up at him. “And… I do not want to know.”

Finally now her emotions slipped through her usual belligerent mask, her ears flattening against her head as her tail drooped low between her legs.

“We should not have come here,” she practically whispered.

Vaike laughed, a fake laugh full of hollow bravado that Owain was very familiar with. It was the sound of his own laugh, back in his own time. The other man stepped forward, brandishing his axe and flexing his huge bicep.

“You ain’t got nothing to worry ‘bout with Teach here guarding ya!” Vaike declared.

“You’re right,” Ita said, rising to her feet and glaring at Vaike. “I know, at least, I can out-run you. That should be sufficient.”

She turned away then, a snickering Owain following after her and leaving a perplexed Vaike to follow as he tried to figure out what running had to do with anything. Ita ran the pads of her fingers along the wall as she walked, occasionally stopping to sniff before moving on to another section of wall. The two Shepherds followed her, letting the wolf woman work at finding a weak entry point for them. She paused, several dozen feet from where the entrance to the cabin had once been, and gave a nod.

“There is a void behind this wall,” she declared, rapping it with the back of her knuckles.

“Alrighty then, let ol’ Teach work his magic,” Vaike declared, stepping up and hefting his axe.

Owain shrugged as he and Ita stepped back, allowing the older man space to work. Vaike’s chiseled muscles heaved as he brought his axe around in a blindingly fast arc, the steel head of the weapon easily piercing the old timber. With a victorious laugh Vaike yanked the weapon back and struck three more times before simply kicking the hole he had made bigger. Beyond the wall was what appeared to be a bedroom, a cabin that once would have been occupied by whatever officers or dignitaries the _Fata Obstant_ was ferrying around the world. Vaike pushed through into the dim room first, glancing around with a sniff. Owain followed, igniting a small magical flame above his hand the way the mages usually did.

“Whoa, when’d ya learn to do that?” Vaike asked him, awed.

“Ha-hah! You underestimate Owain Dark’s great talents!” he declared.

The younger man smirked as he spoke, striking a pose automatically and throwing his hand before his face the way he always did. Without thinking that his hand was still on fire. After a second the acrid stink of burning hair wafted to Owain’s nose and he let out a yelp, patting his fringe with his other hand as he held the flaming one out again. Vaike burst out laughing, and even Ita snorted a terse chuckle as Owain cleared his throat and brushed the burned locks out of his face.

“Clearly, I’m still getting used to it,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Does make life easier, though,” Vaike chuckled, slapping Owain on the shoulder. “Thought we’d be walking around in the dark.”

Ita pushed past the two, stepping deeper into the cabin and looking around. Owain turned, holding his hand up high to inspect the space. It was neat enough, if clearly lived in. A few articles of clothing had been discarded over the back of a chair in the corner, the sheets on the bed rumpled as if having recently been slept in. Owain bent down, placing his non-flaming hand on the bed. It was cold. Vaike gave a cursory glance around before moving to the door and practically throwing it open, glancing up and down the hall before stepping out of the room. Owain cringed, thankful that they technically weren’t attempting to be subtle.

He and Ita followed, doubling back the direction they had come from and following the hall to where the captain’s cabin must once have been. The corridor was like the cabin, cold and abandoned. Even on a skeleton crew this was where the ship’s officers and Captain would have been; this was the nerve-center of the whole ship. There should have been someone, cabin crew or navigators, officers or something around. Instead, there was a thin layer of dust on the floor, with no evidence it had been disturbed recently.

“So where d’ya think everyone is?” Vaike asked, his voice unusually soft.

“Maybe below deck?” Owain suggested.

Ita gave another small sniff before scrunching up her face. “I truly hope not.”

“Hey, I had a thought,” Vaike said, stopping suddenly. “Captain of this ship’d be Valmese, right?”

“Yeah, probably,” Owain agreed hesitantly.

“So he’d have written any logs in Valmese, right?” he went on.

“Your point, manspawn?” Ita snapped.

“I don’t read Valmese,” Vaike shrugged, turning. “Do you?”

“I do not read your manspawn letters,” Ita said flatly.

Owain let out a low groan, and Vaike couldn’t help but smirk.

“I don’t read Valmese either.”

* * *

 

Below the main deck the standard Valmese Dreadnaught could be separated into two distinct areas: The barracks decks and the hold decks. Robin’s small group had quickly and methodically swept all four of the barracks decks, finding the space that should have held hundreds of people utterly devoid of life. Evidence of occupancy was everywhere in the flickering twilight that Arya’s spell provided, yet they saw no people. Here, a spilled rucksack with what had obviously been grabbed from a home last minute. Here, a stack of neatly folded clothes. Mismatched segments of armor, carefully laid out on a cot as if they were being cleaned. Children’s toys lying abandoned in the aisle between bunks, yet left as if they were expecting to come back and start playing again immediately. Sully had made a small sound at the back of her throat when she’d seen this, so faint Robin had barely caught it. All around them, in the neatly ordered rooms, were bunks with hammocks hanging over them, some of the small cots still neatly made up, as if waiting for their occupants to return and use them again. Against one wall was a small writing desk, sheets of paper still weighed down by the sticks of charcoal that would have been used for writing. A small pool of dried wax at the back of the table was evidence of where a candle must once have been, long since burned to nothingness. He had checked the rough paper. It was blank.

They proceeded in almost total silence, broken only when Robin muttered directions or told Arya where to shine her small light.

They eventually came to the hatch leading down to the first of the ship’s cavernous hold spaces. The small group assembled around the darkened opening, Arya shining her light down only to find stairs and more emptiness. With a nod they went down, Robin letting a small sigh out his nose at what they found. There was, obviously, no way that the amount of people that he had seen boarding this vessel would have all fit on the barrack decks. This was clearly where the overflow had wound up. Piles of old blankets and rough rugs were mixed in with random daily bric-a-brac, no rhyme or reason to their placement down here. Obviously, the people had been forced to make do wherever they could fit. Even above the ever-present stink of decay Robin could still pick out the rank stench of unwashed bodies forced into close confines, and human waste. It was bad enough bellow deck on their own ship, but here it was magnified, as if the people aboard hadn’t been allowed to move around the decks like he had organized on the other nameless dreadnaught.

“Hello?” Robin called out.

His voice echoed back at him in the empty hold, Gaius and Arya both jumping at his sudden shout.

“Sorry,” Robin muttered sheepishly.

“There’s, uh, clearly no one here,” Gaius said slowly. “Maybe we go now?”

“Say’ri, how many more floors are there?” Robin asked.

“There are two more,” the Queen answered. “I believe that there was only to be supplies on the lowest level of this vessel.”

“Two more floors, then we’re gone,” Robin said, clapping a hand on Gaius’ shoulder reassuringly. “If this one is like ours there’ll be a second hatch on the opposite end of the deck. We’ll do a quick sweep to make sure no one’s hiding and then go down. Understood?”

The others all nodded, Arya and Gaius somewhat reluctantly. Simia, however, simply stood at the ready, as if there was no question.

They carefully picked their way across the hold, the humans respectfully avoiding treading on any discarded possessions. Simia, however, seemed under no such inclination, and walked over anything and everything left in her path. Robin tried hard not to pick out any of the sad details illuminated by Arya’s small light, and soon enough they had reached the other aide of the hold. The next floor down revealed much of the same. No people, no bodies, only the remains of their lives, the last few pieces they had been able to hold onto as they had fled.

“It’s… kinda sad, isn’t it?” Arya finally said as they picked their way through the second hold.

“I’m trying not to think about it,” Gaius muttered from Robin’s side.

“I am gonna make sure Grima dies again for this,” Sully growled, panning her sword around wherever she looked.

Simia snorted, smirking at the knight’s red armored back. Sully actually froze, slowly turning in place with a withering glare on her face.

“Got something to say, ya ash faced freak?” she ground out between clenched teeth.

“No, she doesn’t,” Robin interrupted. “And she’s sorry.”

“No, I’m not,” Simia scoffed.

Robin rolled his eyes, reaching up and forcing the Risen’s head down in a shallow bow.

“See? Very sorry, now let’s keep moving,” Robin said, a fake smile plastered on his face.

Sully growled and spat on the deck before stomping a few steps away, a ruffled Arya hurrying to follow with the light. Gaius slipped around them, shaking his head as he followed the two women. Once they had moved away Robin shifted his grip, grabbing a handful of the Risen’s hair and hauling her close.

“Behave, or I leave you here when we leave. In pieces,” he growled in a low voice, before shoving her head away. “Now march. Silently.”

Simia nodded, her brow furrowing slightly as she followed the others.

“Why? Why not just kill the creature?”

Robin glanced over his shoulder to see Say’ri watching him, the fading light reflected off her remaining eye.

“It’s useful,” he shrugged. “It has insight we don’t. Plus, my earlier argument of ‘Risen meat shield’ stands.”

Say’ri shook her head slowly, her frown deepening. “There is no insight to be gained from such a foul creature. Do you not see? It merely waits for its moment to strike.”

Robin rolled his eyes. “I’m sure we can argue more about this later. Something’s wrong here, and I want to know what. We need to focus. Come on, let’s catch up with the others.”

The older version of his friend and one-time lover smirked a little, the expression looking odd on her usually severe face.

“You never did listen,” she said softly.

“Hey, your Robin may not have listened, but I take advice,” the tactician said lightly.

“Occasionally. When it suits him, and he’s not utterly convinced he’s right.”

Robin jumped a foot into the air, Say’ri’s hands dropping for the swords at her hips.

“Dammit Gaius, I almost fireballed you!” Robin growled.

The thief in question just shrugged, almost invisible in the darkness.

“We found the hatch going down,” he said, his voice oddly strained. “You, uh… yeah, I can’t describe this one, Bubbles.”

Robin and Say’ri exchanged a glance before breaking into a jog to catch up with the others. They found Sully, Arya and Simia clustered around their destination, but the two human women looked unwell. As they got closer Arya turned away and threw up again, dry retching as she kept her hand aloft, valiantly trying to keep their only light from going out. Sully was pale, her knuckles white on the hilt of her sword. Simia just looked on in idle fascination, clearly bored. A small, simple pully system above the hatch caught his attention, a single bucket hanging forlorn above the dark opening, marking this as the bilge deck, not more storage. With a cold feeling in his stomach Robin realized that the refugees had cast off with next to no supplies, even less than the pittance their own nameless ship had. Robin hesitated before he could see through the hatch, stopping just short of seeing through the hatch.

“Hatch to the bilge deck,” Sully reported, her tone oddly clipped.

“I’m not gonna like this, am I?” he asked.

“No,” Sully answered shortly.

“I don’t want to look,” Robin groaned.

Say’ri pushed past him, ignoring his spluttering and dropping into the hatch without a moment’s hesitation. Robin gave a weak groan and shook his head, pulling one of the small torches they had made from the precious salvage of the Mages’ Tower when they had arrived and lighting it over Arya’s hand.

“I’ll follow her, I guess,” Robin said reluctantly. “The rest of you stay here but be ready to respond if you hear… well, anything really.”

“Sure thing, Bubbles, you go on into the dark hole, we’ll be just fine up here,” Gaius said, readjusting the bandana over his face.

Robin stepped to the hatch, casting his light down and struggling not to vomit himself. Say’ri looked up at him, thigh deep in dark, blood red water. The stench of decay was almost unbearable. With a groan Robin reached back, snatching the bandana off an indignant Gaius’ face before dropping down next to Say’ri in a splash of lukewarm red and offering her the bandana.

“No thank you,” she said, turning away.

“Suit yourself,” Robin shrugged.

With one hand Robin deftly tied the bandana around his face, absently noting that it smelled faintly of sugarcane. He glanced around, wading through the red water after Say’ri. A few small crates bobbed in the water, drifting idly around the space. But no bodies.

“This is wrong,” Robin muttered. “This much blood in the bilge water, there should be bodies.”

“It’s not water,” Say’ri said softly, not looking back.

Robin froze, looking down at the red liquid sloshing against his thighs.

“Please tell me it’s just lamp oil or something.”

“I checked it before you dropped down,” Say’ri said, shaking her head.

“How?”

The Chon’sinian woman finally looked back over her shoulder now, quirking the brow above her eyepatch. It was the same ‘are you that dense?’ look that Robin had seen Severa give Owain countless times, and he shuddered at the implications.

“Okay, so we’re standing thigh deep in blood, great,” he sighed. “No bodies, no clues, no…”

Robin trailed off as a small insect swam through the water between them, a shiny black beetle similar to the scarabs he had seen depicted in Plegia. The jet-black insect stopped for a moment, as if studying them, before swimming on into the darkness.

“Oh that is so gross what the hell was that?” Robin asked, his voice a strangled whisper.

“Whatever it is, it’s the third one I’ve seen,” Say’ri said, turning back to the inky darkness. “They don’t seem to be interested in us.”

Robin was just about to suggest they go back to the hatch and get off the ship as fast as they could, but a cold voice in the dark stopped him.

“That would be because the Thanatophages only consume dead flesh. They have no use for living bodies.”

Robin spun, flashing his torch around in the darkness.

“Clarus!? Is that you!?” he snarled. “I knew it was too much to hope you died coming over here.”

Say’ri looked questioningly at the tactician but had already drawn her swords. Robin twitched his head back, signaling that they retreat. Say’ri nodded, and they slowly started backing towards the hatch.

“What did you do to the people on this ship?” Robin asked, his voice cold now.

Clarus gave a cold chuckle in the darkness, the sound echoing all around them.

“Have you ever wondered how Risen are made? Where they came from?”

“I can honestly say I don’t really care,” Robin seethed.

“It’s the Thanatophages,” Clarus practically whispered, his voice still startlingly loud in the confined darkness. “They create the Risen! The blood gets in the way, hence this mess, but aside from that it’s a near-perfect system. Can you believe that? The worst danger to Ylisse in centuries is a magical insect that raises the dead! Ancient, self-propagating magic from before the time of the Halidom! It’s incredible. I found it almost amusing. All that death, all those lives lost, in the face of such a little thing… Don’t you agree?”

“Hilarious,” Robin ground out. “Doesn’t answer my question, though.”

“Must I spell it out for you?” Clarus said, actually sounding disappointed.

“Nah, I was just stalling until we made it to the hatch,” Robin scoffed.

He spun, splashing through the thigh-deep viscera and trusting Say’ri to follow his lead as he dashed for the comparative safety that the next deck up would provide. He barely made it a few steps, though, before Say’ri cried out. Turning back, Robin was just in time to watch the older woman fly through the air, the faint tingle of powerful lightning magic in the close air even as she landed in a fountain of blood.

“Say’ri!” Robin screamed, wading over to where he’d seen her fall.

She came up in a splash of red, coughing and spluttering as she tried to wipe the blood from her eye. Robin’s relief was short-lived, though. Clarus stepped out of the shadows behind him, roughly grabbing his wrist and yanking his free hand up. Robin tried to pull away, but the shorter mage grabbed at his fingers with his other hand. Tendons strained, and he gave a pained shout, falling to a knee in the sloshing blood. Say’ri tried to rise, and behind them came splashes as the others descended to the bilge deck, no doubt drawn by Robin’s shouting, but the tactician barely noticed all of this.

Clarus smiled down at him, the Ylissean archmage’s skin a pale, ashen grey, his eyes as dark as the void, black as only Robin’s had been when he had channeled Grima’s foul mana himself. Most disturbing, though, was the large scarab beetle embedded on the side of Clarus’ neck, pulsating as if in time with his pulse. The demented mage leaned down, twisting Robin’s hand further. He felt the tendons in his wrist stretch to breaking point, his fingers begin to separate from their sockets.

“I don’t think you’ll need this anymore,” Clarus whispered.

With a savage twist, a feat of strength that should have been beyond the physically weak mage, Clarus snapped Robin’s wrist. The tactician let out another pained scream, rising in pitch as Clarus wrenched at his fingers. Two dislocated outright as the mage yanked on another, and with a sickening tearing sensation Robin’s left index finger was torn clear from his hand. Robin gave one final scream as Clarus released him, clutching his ruined hand protectively to his chest and dropping the torch in the pool of blood. In the fitful light from Arya’s spell Clarus help up his prize, using his teeth to pull the finger, Robin’s finger, out of Excellus’ old teleporting ring, before spitting the ragged flesh aside with a happy smile on his pallid face as he inspected the magic ring.

His victory was short lived, though, as a long, black blade erupted from is shoulder. Clarus spun with a pained shout, shooting off a backhanded fire spell as the weapon was wrenched out him. Simia rolled beneath the spell, heedless of the blood, and slashed again, driving the mage back. Clarus laughed as he began to cast more spells at the enraged Deadlord, backpedaling to make space between them.

Arya rushed to Robin’s side as Simia and Clarus fought, grabbing him by the arm and hauling the injured man towards the hatch.

“I’m fine, get Say’ri!” Robin told her, getting his feet under him.

Arya nodded, letting him go and running towards where Say’ri was still struggling to rise, a nasty burn visible now on her side. As Robin watched, Simia gave a vicious snarl, spinning with a deadly grace to avoid a flurry of spells as she lashed out at Clarus.

“Who gave her a sword!?” Robin shouted above the battle.

“She just pulled it out of thin air!” Gaius called from the hatch.

“Are you coming or not!?” Sully added.

Robin lingered just long enough to make sure Arya and Say’ri were right behind him before making for the hatch. He leapt up, grabbing Sully’s hand and allowing himself to be pulled clear.

“What the hell happened to your hand!?” Sully practically snarled as Robin moved away from the hatch.

“Later, get Say’ri and Arya out of there!” Robin snapped back.

Sully turned back, reaching down and hauling the wounded woman up with one hand, Say’ri giving a hiss of pain as her injuries were stretched. Before Sully even reached down for Arya Robin felt the telltale gathering of mana and spun, drawing his sword one handed, ready for Clarus to reappear behind them and continue to press his attack. Nothing appeared, only the last echoes of Clarus’ demented laughter floating in the still, putrid air.

“He’s gone!” Simia bellowed from below.

Robin cursed under his breath, lowering his sword and inspecting his ruined hand.

“He got what he wanted. We need to get back to our ship. Now.”

“What about the people?” Say’ri asked, letting Sully pull her up.

“I really hope they’re not where I think they are,” Robin groaned.

He glanced back to the hatch to see Gaius pulling a visibly pale Arya up, the thief and the knight exchanging a glance as they looked at the only one of their number still below. Clearly, they were silently trying to decide if they should pull the Deadlord up, but the decision was taken out of their hands when Simia leapt up, grabbing the edge of the hole with one hand and pulling herself up in one fluid motion.

“You!” Robin growled. “Can you tell if there are other Risen nearby!?”

“Yes,” Simia answered obediently, lowering her head.

“Are there!?”

The Deadlord glanced up slightly, a look of confusion flashing in her red eyes.

“Can you not feel them, master?”

Robin’s eyes widened for a moment before he reached out and grabbed Simia by the collar, hauling the Risen close.

“No I can’t bloody feel them!” he practically shrieked in his panic. “If you feel a bunch of Risen for Naga’s sake tell me! Back to the ship! Now!”

* * *

 

On the nameless Valmese dreadnought Galle gave a sigh, rolling out his shoulders beneath his black coat as he came back up onto the main deck from below. Nobody had seen head nor hide of a man fitting Clarus' description, none of the guards, the Shepherds or the refugees. The young tactician felt a strange disappointment at this, the source of which he couldn't quite place. He was relieved, yes, but he had wanted to be right, too. Perhaps Isaac had been right about him, that he was needlessly competitive sometimes. Or perhaps he had just wanted to appear better in Idalia’s eyes. He shook that thought from his head; he needed to get back home first, before he could think about the future.

He had combed the entire ship, top to bottom, as discretely as he could. Aside from getting the Shepherds in on the manhunt, which would probably be a wild goose chase anyway, there wasn’t much else he could do. It still didn’t sit right, though, he reflected as he wandered aimlessly across the deck. He had seen something in the crowd before that little girl had dropped dead. Something or someone. Maybe some new Risen strain? Possible, he reasoned, given the level of power Grima was supposed to hold in this world.

“Find anything?” Idalia asked, still lazing against the railing where Galle had left her.

“No,” he admitted. “And I don’t know weather to be happy or disturbed by that.”

“Be happy that psychopath is far away,” Idalia scoffed.

Galle nodded, absently rubbing at the back of his head. There was a strange pressure in the air making him uncomfortable. He glanced over at Tharja and Femi further down the deck. To his surprise both women were backing away from the edge.

“Uh, Khan Idalia? I think we should move,” Galle said, eyes not leaving the two Dark Mages.

The older woman glanced over her shoulder at him, quirking a questioning brow. Something was wrong, and Galle hadn’t survived so long in such a hostile world without listening to his instincts. And now those very same instincts screamed ‘danger’.

Still Tharja and Femi backed away, withdrawing spellbooks now. They looked…

Terrified.

“Move!” Galle snarled, grabbing the slight Ylissean woman and practically throwing her away from the railing.

Just as a very upset-looking Idalia flew away from the railing a grey, ruined hand slapped down on the deck, claws of bone extending from receding fingertips scraping on the timber before finding purchase. Galle backpedaled as Idalia pulled herself back up, looking up and down the deck. The same scene was being repeated all along the length of the dreadnaught, refugees screaming now as those closest to the railing were pulled over and into the water. More screams from behind told Galle the same scene was repeating on the opposite side of the ship, too. The things now climbing up onto the deck moved slowly, as if waiting for something. They looked like the refugees, but the pallid grey tint to their skin and the telltale glowing red eyes both screamed Risen. And there were already dozens of them on the deck, with more following.

“Oh, what fresh hell is this!?” Idalia snapped, drawing her thin sword.

“They look like Risen,” Galle commented. “But… they also look like…”

“The refugees from the other ship,” the Khan spat. “Damnation, I knew this would be a pointless endeavor and now we’re going to die for Robin’s damned bleeding heart!”

Galle wasn’t sure if he would have agreed or argued against her words, both of them becoming distracted as one of Nirath’s wolves gave a great howl. The call was taken up by all the other wolves, and soon soldiers began to spill from the bowels of the ship as even more of the Risen-refugees climbed onto the deck. Tharja and Femi were already blasting away with small, contained spells as they retreated, no doubt trying not to damage the dreadnaught with a misplaced blast. A small grouping of warriors and wolves was beginning to form near Galle and Idalia, and it looked like that would be the best point to defend from.

With a shudder Galle realized that none of these Risen wore the masks that the creatures usually did. Each one had a face. Men, women and children, glaring with glowing, hate filled eyes, black miasma and bile dripping from distended, slack jaws as they encroached on the living. There was no longer any doubt in Galle’s mind; the Risen weren’t magical constructs or summoned creatures, they were truly undead.

“To arms!” Liung snarled, the old ruler limping quickly among the press. “To arms! Form a line! Nirath! Tell your wolves to maintain formation this time, dammit!”

“Men of Valm stand firm!” Lady Helia roared, her blonde hair practically shining above her red armor in the dim light as she rallied her soldiers from Liung’s side.

There was a rumbling laugh, and Galle turned to see that the old wolf herself had transformed and stood not far from him. She was at least twice the size of the rest of the wolves, and despite her ragged appearance still managed a sort of feral grace.

“Guard the entrances!” Liung roared above the clamor. “Don’t let them inside the ship! Prepare for-”

Whatever warning Liung was about to give was lost as the Risen let out a collective gurgling roar, bloated corpses and waterlogged bodies rushing forward now as even more climbed from the depths beneath the dreadnaught. Tharja and Femi just barely managed to make it back to the knot of defenders, disappearing from Galle’s sight for a moment before reappearing, already casting spells against the encroaching horde again. Nirath let out another howl before barreling forward, her wolves moving with the great white wolf in her charge. The Risen fell before her fury as if they were training dummies, and Galle couldn’t help but be impressed by her ferocity. He was jolted from his observations when Idalia slapped him upside the head, her frowning countenance filling his vision.

“Are you going to stand there or are you going to help!?” she asked. “Make some magic happen!”

“And you wonder why people want to kill you…” Galle grumbled, stepping back from the older woman and reaching for his spellbook, too.

A few quick incantations and green winds began to whip at the Risen, throwing them into the air and from the deck of the ship back into the sea.  More and more of the Shepherds began to surge from below, Chrom himself leading Cordelia, Cherche and Basilio against the thickest concentration of Risen. Ricken and Maribelle arrived not long after, the young mage going to work as the healer strode boldly to where she was needed, heedless of the danger. All the while Galle continued to strike with his magic.

“Is there no end to these things!?” Idalia growled.

As she spoke the Khan stabbed a Risen through the chest, the creature having slipped through the line and approached Galle’s blind spot. He glanced over at her, giving muttered words of gratitude before going back to systematically tossing the Risen from the ship with his magic.

Tharja was suddenly at their sides, practically shoving Femi towards Galle with a familiar glower on her face.

“Watch her,” she snapped, before turning away and shouting as she disappeared back into the crowd “Ricken! Assist me!”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Femi seethed, stepping up next to Galle.

“I don’t care, I wasn’t going to hold your hand anyway,” he told her.

“Less talking and more saving our lives, please!” Idalia urged.

They began to work in earnest, more and more magic pummeling the Risen away from the ship and the warriors on it. Femi did her best to compliment Galle’s sweeping strikes along the Risen front, lashing out at those that were staggered by the periphery of his own magic. Idalia continued to stand before them, killing any of the creatures that got too close, but one look at her told Galle that the second she needed to, the Khan would be behind the two Plegians rather than risking her own skin. More powerful magic began to shape overhead, Ricken and Tharja conjuring a localized storm that began to send dark purple lightning bolts crashing into the Risen.

Then the tide of bodies shifted, and to Galle’s dismay it was the human line that broke. A loud, canine-like shout of pain preceded this, the Plegian tactician looking up in time with a sinking feeling to see Nirath go down under a press of Risen, the creatures tearing with claws of bone at the exhausted wolf shifter in a cloud of blood mist and torn fur. Her own people leapt to her aid, almost feral in their wrath as the remaining wolves tried desperately to save their queen, but as they moved to her relief they left the rest of the refugee warriors alone, abandoning their places in line to swarm their fallen queen’s attackers.

“Dammit, get back in line you mangy beasts!” Liung howled.

The old king limped forward to fill one of the gaps himself, a heavy long-bladed spear in his armored hands. Chrom glanced over his shoulder, the Shepherds performing a textbook fighting retreat at a few barked orders, the quartet covering each other and moving like a well-oiled machine as they pulled back towards safety. The rest weren’t so lucky, many of the warriors falling to the Risen. Galle saw the local soldier Victor hauling a wounded man away from the fighting with Maribelle, and Tharja and Ricken appeared at their backs again as the safe area was made even smaller.

“Liung!”

Galle looked up as Helia screamed, cursing as the older man went down, too, howling in rage as he continued to lunge with his spear, even as the Risen began tearing through his armor. Helia pushed through the retreating warriors with a clear air of desperation, poised to rescue the older man. Acting on instinct more than anything else he surged forward, grabbing Helia by the arm and pulling her back.

“Let me go!” she snarled.

Helia actually brought her sword around at Galle in a tired half-swing, and he batted the blade away easily.

“He’s gone and you’ll die too! Get back!” Galle growled.

“We need him!” Helia pleaded. “The refugees need him! I need him!”

“Tough!” the Plegian spat, pulling back on her again.

The Valmese woman all but crumpled at his side, tears streaming down her filthy face as the survivors began to edge back towards the hatchway they were guarding. It took a moment for Galle to figure out why they hadn’t been overrun yet, until he realized that the majority of the Risen assaulting them had stopped to feed. The Risen hunched over the corpses of the defenders they had slain, crowding around them like wild animals. Galle couldn’t bring himself to watch.

“Mages!” Chrom roared above the panic. “Let loose! Collateral damage to the ship authorized!”

The words had barely left his mouth when Ricken gave a roar of his own, a massive fireball practically incinerating a section of deck and all the Risen atop it. Tharja began to shoot her own heavier spells, Nosferatu and Waste spells tearing gouges from the deck even as they tore the Risen apart. Galle began to cast one handed, keeping his other on Helia’s arm as the woman wept, just in case she tried anything again.

“Chrom, take command!” Tharja called.

“Form up on me!” the Exalt called, stepping forward. “Shepherds! Forward! We will be their shield!”

Galle rolled his eyes, swiping at more of the Risen with an Elwind spell powerful enough to rip a nearby railing from the deck, too.

“I’m okay now,” Helia told him without looking up.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Galle told her, sparing the woman a brief glance. “Your people still need you.”

She nodded, retreating into the crowd to where her own soldiers were. Galle watched her for a moment, a rare pang of sympathy blooming in his chest before he turned back to the battle. With Chrom in command now they were reforming their lines around the Shepherds, preparing to push the ever-expanding Risen horde from the deck and back into the sea. They had bought themselves a brief respite, but the day was far from over.

With another gurgling roar the waterlogged Risen pushed forward again, and Galle lost himself to the melee.

* * *

 

By the time Robin’s little group returned to the Dreadnaught he could tell that the battle was already over. Corpses, both Valmese and Risen, peppered the ship’s deck as Robin pulled himself up onto it, smoldering craters creating a haze of smoke on the deck from where the mages had clearly gotten desperate. The Risen corpses were the most disturbing thing, though. As long as they had been dealing with Risen the creatures had simply turned to ash as they died. Seeing them now, lying strewn about the deck in their hundreds, was hard. It was harder because, aside from the ashen skin, they looked just like the refugees.

“No!” Say’ri cried, climbing up behind him.

He watched, barely aware as the others clambered up behind him.

No one had been there to meet them, but fortunately the ladder had been left hanging on the ship’s hull for them to use. Now, though, weary defenders and those Shepherds who had remained behind began to slowly emerge from the smoky haze.

Say’ri knelt by the nearest body, her shoulders trembling slightly. Next to the body of the man lying on the deck the Queen looked startlingly small. It was hard to remember sometimes that she was a small woman; such was the force of her will and presence that fact was usually forgotten. Checking quickly to make sure the others would be okay climbing up, Robin moved to her side. Say’ri glanced up as he neared, her face stricken.

“We were supposed to be safe now,” she said, her voice thick. “We were supposed to be free. How… why did this follow us? What did we do to deserve this? Haven’t these people suffered enough!? Haven’t we!?”

Say’ri looked back down at the body, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. “Haven’t I?”

Robin reached down, resting his uninjured hand on her shoulder. He wasn’t sure what to say, or even if he could say anything.

Fortunately for the tactician Chrom chose that moment to come out of the haze, the Exalt sporting a new gash on his forehead but looking otherwise unharmed.

“Thank Naga you’re okay,” he said, quickly walking over to Robin.

He hesitated when he spotted Say’ri, though, adding in a low tone “You are all okay, right?”

“Mostly,” Robin said, holding up his injured hand and taking a few steps away from Say’ri. “I’d say we got the better end of the deal, honestly. I can guess, but I’ll ask anyway; what happened?”

“We’re not sure,” Chrom shook his head. “They just started climbing up the sides of the ship. They… look like Risen, but…”

“They are incomplete, Naga-slave,” Simia said, the Deadlord appearing at Robin’s shoulder. “They would eventually have become Risen, mindless masked ones.”

Chrom jumped a little at the Risen’s sudden appearance, Arya following in it’s wake with a harried expression on her young face. The Exalt glanced down, making sure that Simia was still shackled and bound before turning back to Robin with a questioning glance.

“She had nothing- it. It had nothing to do with this,” Robin said, stopping to correct himself. “It was Clarus. He’s been corrupted, another living Risen like Maris.”

Chrom muttered a curse, running a hand through his hair and wincing as he brushed the wound on his brow.

“What happened there?” Robin asked, pointing to the injury.

“One of the Risen snuck past my guard,” Chrom sighed. “It’s the fatigue. It’s slowing me down.”

“You could just be getting old,” Robin shrugged with a grin.

“Shut up,” Chrom laughed tiredly, slugging the other man in the shoulder. “What happened to you?”

Robin shrugged again, holding up his hand and wiggling his remaining four fingers. “Clarus wanted my teleporting ring. The finger got in the way.”

“That’s not a good thing. Any more injuries?” Chrom asked, wincing sympathetically.

“Say’ri got thrown around a little bit. Minor burns. Might want to get Maribelle to take a look at her,” Robin sighed. “How many?”

“Too many,” Chrom sighed, the bigger man deflating. “At least fifty refugees. We’re still counting. Liung. Nirath. This… cost us.”

Robin closed his eyes, sucking in a breath at the familiar pang of loss in his chest. Say’ri’s gaze snapped up, a horrified expression on her face as she rose back to her feet.

“And Lady Helia?” the Chon’sinian Queen asked hesitantly.

“She fought beside us, but is unharmed,” Chrom said, flashing Robin another tired grin. “She seems to have taken quite the liking to your former student, though.”

“Who, Galle? Has she not met him before?” Robin scoffed.

“That’s mean,” Arya muttered behind him.

Robin smirked for a moment before sobering, watching Ita pick her way through the smoky haze to where the remaining members of her people were gathered, no doubt around their fallen Queen.

“Okay, so obviously we’ll need to organize some memorial services,” the tactician sighed. “I’ll talk to the wolves. Is there anyone that can help us with a Chengshi service?”

“There were some local priests among the refugees,” Say’ri said softly. “I will find them.”

“Good,” Robin nodded, turning to his apprentice. “Arya, get that thing secured in the hold.”

“Right,” the girl nodded.

The tactician turned a withering glare on the Deadlord. “Don’t make any fuss.”

“Of course, Lord,” Simia said, bowing her head obediently.

Robin rolled his eyes, turning back to Arya. “Take Owain and Vaike with you. The people may look for someone to blame for all this, and we don’t need this thing becoming a target.”

As the group broke up to carry out their tasks Chrom fell into step with Robin, speaking with a low, even tone.

“Robin, you said that Clarus has your ring.”

“He does.”

“How bad is that?”

“It’s pretty bad, Chrom. He could be anywhere now,” Robin said, his own voice dropping. “I spoke to Ricken about him. Chrom, Clarus was the head of the Magical Engineering Department in the Mages’ Tower. If he manages to reverse-engineer the spell in the ring he’ll be able to create an honest-to-Naga teleportation spell, and then we’ll never catch him. This is the worst possible outcome. I’m sorry.”

Chrom sighed, his face growing stony. “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why it took me so long to post this chapter here. It's been up for almost a month on FF.net. Sorry. Kinda forgot.


	26. Chapter 26

Robin sighed through his nose, letting himself deflate a little as he stared down at his hastily-bandaged hand. He gave a weak cough into the back of his good hand and was quietly relieved to see no blood, although the copper tang of it still touched his tongue. The rag had once been the bandana he’d yanked off of Gaius’ neck, although he assumed that the thief wouldn’t want it back now. The cloth orange was filthy with blood, both his own and that of the refugees they had failed to save.

The tactician shifted against the railing he was leaning on, trying to get comfortable on the hard deck and failing miserably.

He ached. He hadn’t been fit to lead the mission to the _Fata Obstant_ , and he knew it. He had known it at the time, too, but had been too stubborn to listen to his own common sense. With a sad smirk, Robin realized he’d gotten used to Lucina being his voice of reason. Because of his pig-headedness, he’d gotten this world’s Say’ri hurt, not to mention all of the Shepherds they had left behind nearly killed.

Say’ri was with Maribelle at the moment, Robin patiently waiting his turn. The very few Valmese healers that had survived were tending to the soldiers hurt during the Risen attack. Ragged priests and clerics, barely able to stand yet pushing themselves far past their limits for the sake of the wounded. Their altruism was truly inspiring.

The dead had been piled near the stern of the ship, awaiting proper burial rites. All except Liung and Nirath, who would be given separate services. Liung had been carefully put in his cabin. Nirath was currently lying on the deck in her wolf form, surrounded by the remaining wolves and Ita. With the deaths of those two, the refugees had truly lost their brightest. Say’ri was too wounded, in Robin’s opinion, to lead adequately; not physically, but mentally and emotionally. She could pull it together for the people, of that he had no doubt, but only at great cost to herself. And Helia was just a girl, the same age as Lucina and the rest had been when they had travelled back in time. It wouldn’t be fair to thrust the burden of leadership on her at such a young age, but they might not have a choice in the matter and the thought stung. This was exactly the kind of thing that Robin and Chrom had fought for so long to avoid.

“How are you holding up?”

Robin glanced up, Cherche smiling down at him tiredly. Her plate armor was splattered with gore and soot, but she had taken the time to clean her face at some point. He sat up a little straighter, returning her smile with an exhausted grin of his own.

“Just waiting my turn,” Robin said.

Cherche nodded and knelt down in front of him, setting her axe aside. “Let me see.”

The tactician just nodded and held out his hand, knowing from Virion’s stories that there was no point in trying to argue with her. Cherche carefully peeled the sodden rag back, hissing through her teeth as she saw his ruined hand. His broken fingers had been set but were turning an ugly purple-black color with bruises now. The stump of his missing finger had stopped bleeding freely, but still oozed a small amount of blood. The edges of the wound were angry and red, no doubt already infected by some horrible Grima-tainted pathogen. The wrist itself was limp, broken bones grinding painfully every time he even tried to move it.

“I had Chrom help me set the fingers,” Robin explained. “Well, the ones that are still there, anyway. This… is the first time I’ve left a part of me behind. It feels… odd. My hand feels too light. It’s going to take some getting used to.”

“We will need to clean the wound before Maribelle can heal it,” Cherche explained.

“We barely have any water,” Robin pointed out. “Maybe we use a fire spell to cauterize the wound?”

“Now I see where your student got the idea,” Cherche rolled her eyes, standing. “I believe that I heard Basilio mention something about having some local liquor. I will check with him. Wait here. And do not set yourself on fire.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Robin chuckled, settling back and rewrapping his hand. “And I’m not making any promises!”

“Yes, we all know what you’re like with fire,” Cherche sighed.

The older woman hefted her axe and rested it on her shoulder, already disappearing into the crowd before Robin could get the last word in.

“Damn, Virion was right, it is vexing how she does that,” he muttered, still smirking.

The tactician grew somber again, though, replaying the exchange in his head. Cherche and Virion had always been older than the rest of the Shepherds, but it had been so easy to forget that fact. He had never seen the beautiful wyvern rider looking so… well, old. She had crows’ feet and dark rings around her eyes. Her hair had lost its luster. The way she had moved, that brief, almost infinitesimal moment of hesitation before she hefted her axe, most people would have missed it. On a whim Robin glanced up, looking for the other Shepherds milling about the deck. Vaike moved slowly, wincing every time he bent down. Gaius was leaning against another railing, trying to catch his breath. Cordelia stumbled over her words as she spoke to one of the local soldiers, blinking a few times before trying again. Even Chrom was running a hand through his hair, fairly radiating exhaustion.

Then there was himself. Robin realized he’d never felt so old before. He knew, academically, that he wasn’t as young as he had once been. But for him to feel so tired, so beaten down… even during the worst points in the Valm campaign nearly a decade ago now he hadn’t felt this bad.

With a sinking feeling he realized that even out here, so far away from Valm, they were being affected by Grima’s tainted essence.

Heaving another sigh Robin closed his eyes, deciding to try to meditate a little to deal with the pain from his hand and wrist. He had never been one for meditation or reflection when he had been younger, more a man of action, of planning and leading the Shepherds to victory. However as he had aged, and without the Shepherds there needing his constant babysitting, he had found himself more in need of the act.

Taking deep breaths Robin tried again to get comfortable, wincing as he jarred his hand, and allowed his chin to sink to his chest.

_“Robin.”_

Inhale. Exhale. Robin let his mind empty. Given the circumstances it should have been harder, but he was well-versed in this action, and accustomed to ignoring his problems.

_“Robin. Heed me…”_

He ignored whoever was calling him. They could wait a few moments for him to find some measure of peace.

_“Robin. Come find me…”_

“Robin?”

“What? Agh!”

The tactician jerked upright, suddenly sitting up straight and bumping his injured hand against his thigh in the process. He blinked a few times, aware now that he had fallen asleep. Cherche and Maribelle looked down at him, and the wyvern rider knelt at his side with her brow furrowed in concern.

“Are you okay?” Cherche asked.

Robin waved her concern off, grinning a little as he made sure to use his good hand this time.

“Fine, fine,” he assured them. “Just… resting my eyes.”

Maribelle wordlessly knelt down next to him and he automatically stuck his injured hand out for her. She sucked a breath through her teeth much the way Cherche had at the sight of his ruined appendage when she peeled back the rag, pretty face contorting in a serious frown.

“You were muttering in your sleep,” Cherche said quietly next to him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’ve been talking to myself for years,” he laughed, wincing as Maribelle poked at his fingers. “I was just meditating. How’s Say’ri?”

“Exhausted,” Maribelle said simply. “It took all her strength to heal her burns. She will have scars. As will you. What lummox set these fingers?”

“That would be Chrom,” Robin snickered. “At least he did better than the time Vaike tried to set his dislocated shoulder by himself.”

“Do not remind me,” Maribelle muttered, prodding at the skin around where Robin’s finger had once been. “Do you still have the finger?”  

“Nope, I was… too busy to go back for it,” Robin admitted.

“Then I will be unable to do anything but heal the skin over,” Maribelle warned him.

“Honestly, I would be impressed if you could regrow a whole finger,” Robin smirked before glancing up at Cherche again. “Uh, I’m fine, Cherche. Really. You can go hover over the others now if you want.”

“Actually,” she said with that disarming smile Virion always warned him about. “I’m here to hold you down.”

“To… ‘hold me down’?” Robin repeated, eyes widening a little in fear.

Cherche just smiled as she lay her forearm across his collar, effectively pinning him to the railing while Maribelle held his arm, just above where his wrist was broken, in a vise-like grip. She pulled a small bottle out of a pocket, the local liquor judging from the smell. Without meaning to Robin twitched, and Cherche pressed down on him harder.

“This will hurt,” Maribelle warned him.

“Are we sure I can’t just cauterize it?” Robin asked, voice quaking.

“So that I can do this again with a burn wound?” she asked rhetorically. “No. Please do not move now, Robin.”

To his credit, Robin managed not to scream when she poured the alcohol on his wound. Barely. However, so preoccupied as he was with his pain Robin totally forgot about the dream he had just had until he had it again that evening.

* * *

The next day they laid both Liung and Nirath to rest in separate services. The remaining wolves had milled about uncertainly after Nirath’s service, seemingly lost without any clear leader, but Ita surprised Robin by taking charge and getting them out of everyone’s way. He and Chrom leaned against one of the upper railings, looking down from the forecastle onto the main deck where Ita was busy bullying the remaining wolves into some form of training exercises. Chrom gave a small chuckle, and Robin glanced over at him curiously.

“Nothing, nothing,” the Exalt waved him off. “Just thinking that you have a habit of attracting strange and eccentric types.”

“Says he who brought the amnesiac home like a lost puppy,” Robin shot back.

“Oh, one time,” Chrom scoffed.

Both men sobered as they returned to watching the people who had come above decks slowly trickle back inside. Since the incident with the Risen attacking most of the refugees had been far more reluctant to venture above deck. Much of the cautious optimism the people had been displaying had evaporated, and the mood in the holds was muted. It was as if they were holding their breath, waiting for the next catastrophe. The people had given up hope. It didn’t help that their remaining leaders were too wounded to stand and a shell-shocked girl who had barely spoken in the last twenty-four hours. Helia had shut down after the battle on the Dreadnaught, the girl almost catatonic as she followed Galle, Femi and Arya around, no doubt seeking solace in people her own age.

“Hey,” Robin spoke up suddenly. “So… have you been having weird dreams since you got here?”

“Where did that come from?” Chrom asked seriously.

“Don’t panic, I’m just asking,” Robin said defensively.

“Alright,” Chrom nodded slowly, unconvinced. “Then no, I don’t believe I have. Nothing I can’t put up to stress, anyway.”

“Okay, that’s good,” Robin sighed, before pausing and grinning sheepishly. “So… you remember back before Valm when I went on that quest to find my lost memories and ended up following a mysterious voice to Plegia?”

Chrom gave Robin a sideways glare before sighing and running a hand down his face.

“I knew you were going somewhere with that question…”

“Yeah, yeah, but it wasn’t what you were worried about,” Robin said. “So, I’ll need to sleep a few more times to make sure, but I think she’s trying to call me again.”

“From Plegia.”

“Uh… yes.”

“Where Grima, not to mention the majority of the Risen, are bound to be.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“And you want to… go there.”

“Well when you put it like that it sounds silly, but yes,” crossing his arms and looking back out over the ship

Chrom sighed again. “Robin, I do truly worry about you sometimes.”

Robin shook his head, turning back to the Exalt.

“You didn’t meet her, Chrom. If she’s still there, whatever she is… she could be a powerful ally.”

“If she’s still there,” Chrom shot back. “If you can even make it there. If she hasn’t already been corrupted by Grima. If she even wants to help us. There’s a lot of room for error in this plan.”

“Hey, I don’t have a plan yet,” Robin sniffed. “If it were a plan there’d be contingencies, side-plans; I plan for plans.”

“That doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Chrom pointed out.

“Neither does following a psychotic mage through a portal to an alternate version of our own world where we are all dead,” Robin pointed out.

Chrom actually paused for a moment, before turning a weak glare on the grinning tactician.

“You know, my life started making a lot less sense when you showed up in it,” he said slowly.

“And I thank you every day for taking me in and sharing my cosmic weirdness,” Robin chuckled. “But we’re getting distracted. She’s calling, and I think we need to answer.”

“We?”

“I just assumed you were coming with me,” Robin shrugged.

“Damn straight I am,” Chrom huffed.

“Ah!” Robin said, face lighting up as he held up a finger. “So that means we can go?”

Faltering, Chrom froze before he let out a long groan.

“Fine!” he relented, throwing his hands up in the air. “But if we die horrible deaths I’m holding you responsible.”

“Noted,” Robin laughed.

After the Exalt finished rolling his eyes and Robin finished chuckling they grew quiet again, watching the refugees beneath them.

“These people are on the defensive, Chrom,” Robin said softly. “They’re reacting, not acting. If we do this and it pans out we may be able to tip the scales in their favor.”

“I know,” Chrom said, grinning a little. “But I’m still making you explain it to the others on your own.”

* * *

On the deck below Galle stood with his arms crossed, leaning back against the railing overlooking the low walkway on the edge of the ship. No one, not even the soldiers on guard duty, were braving the lower walkways, and even Galle was careful to keep one eye on the outside of the ship and the deceptively still waters.

A small gust of wind whipped a lock of his hair into his face and Galle brushed it back, relishing the small piece of normalcy that the wind represented.

“I think they’re planning something,” Femi said.

Galle glanced over at the young dark mage, where she was squinting up at Robin and Chrom above them. He rolled his eyes, going back to people watching. Beside him Arya and Helia both did their best to win at some sort of unspoken ‘timidity contest’ that he wasn’t privy to, leaving his only conversation partner the mage.

“They’re leaders. Planning is in their job description,” he pointed out.

“I know,” Femi said without looking at him. “I want to know what they’re planning.”

“I don’t care.”

“How can you not care?”

“Easy. Like this,” Galle said, stretching out his neck and yawning for good measure.

Beside him Arya giggled a little while Helia barely looked up. Galle supposed that made Helia the timidity winner.

“What is it with you two lately?” Femi asked, finally glancing over at him.

“Why, what ever do you mean?” Galle deadpanned.

“I mean you and sir Robin,” Femi huffed. “Ever since we left Valm you’ve been avoiding him.”

“We’ve been kinda busy,” he pointed out.

“I noticed,” Arya mumbled.

Galle shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. It wasn’t like he’d been purposely avoiding Robin, they had just been, as he’d said, busy. Organizing refugees and doing inventory of their remaining supplies, helping organize the refugee soldiers and helping with first aid. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that most of the Shepherds hadn’t stopped since they had joined up with the Valmese.

“You should talk to him,” Helia said, speaking for the first time that day.

Three Plegian sets of eyes snapped to the Valmese girl. She was looking up now, staring directly at Galle.

“There was a lot I never got to say to Liung,” she explained in a small voice. “I never even got to… thank him. So, you should take the opportunity now. While you can.”

“That’s very profound, actually,” Femi agreed with a sympathetic smile. “And especially true given our current circumstances.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll talk to the man when he’s not busy with foreign royalty,” Galle groaned.

“But… aren’t we technically busy with foreign royalty right now, too?” Arya asked.

Slowly all three Plegians turned to look at Helia again. She grinned sheepishly under their combined gazes.

“There’s… not a lot of others around my own age,” she admitted quietly. “That’s… not a problem, is it?”

Galle opened his mouth to say something sarcastic, but was interrupted by Arya showing a rare burst of assertiveness and elbowing him in the ribs.

“Of course not,” the slim girl said with a cheery smile. “Right Femi?”

“Exactly,” the dark mage giggled, grinning evilly at Galle.

“Yeah, what’s one more woman to make my life hard?” he grumbled.

The girls giggled, Helia getting a few in too, and Galle was relieved to see her relaxing a little. The Valmese girl had been high-strung since the battle aboard the ship, and while he would never admit it the way that she had been about to fling herself into certain death had worried him.

He tuned out as the girls began chatting about something, content to lean on the railing and enjoy what few wisps of breeze actually blew out here on the ocean, and closed his eyes. Galle had actually never been on the sea before; he had worked in port cities, and had occasionally gone on the water near the coast when he’d been accepting deliveries from larger ships that wouldn’t fit in the harbor, but he’d never been out on the open water like this. He had asked Mari to describe it to him once, and the thought of her simple yet poetic answers created a little bloom of warmth in his chest.

“Oh, Galle’s thinking about his girlfriend again.”

“He has a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, he gets that dopey little grin when he thinks about her.”

“That’s adorable! Who’d have thought he had a soft side?”

Galle gave a derisive sniff, then froze.

“Stop talking,” he said, eyes suddenly wide open.

“Aw, why, you embarrassed?” Femi cooed.

“Shut up,” he sighed, rubbing between his eyes. “Do you smell that?”

“Is it love? Because no, I-” the Dark Mage grinned before Galle cut her off.

“I’m being serious,” he snapped. “Wait for a breeze… there?”

Arya gave a cursory sniff, moving to lean out over the railing.

“Smoke?” she asked curiously.

“Is it from the galley?” Helia asked hopefully.

Femi joined them at the railing, leaning out with Arya. Galle took another few deep breaths, finally catching a good whiff of the smoke. It was familiar, and not in a good way. The last time he’d smelled this was in Ylisstol. Fire eating wood, flesh and bone alike. It was not a nice smell, even if it was one that Galle would know anywhere.

“It’s no cooking fire,” Arya said softly, echoing his thoughts.

Galle spun, opening his mouth to begin barking orders and then closing it when he came face to face with Helia. She looked up at him expectantly, and a thought occurred to him.

“Well? What should we do?” he asked her.

“You’re… asking me?” she said, genuinely sounding shocked.

“Say’ri is wounded and the others are gone,” Galle pointed out. “Now would be a very good time to start acting like a leader.”

 On the deck around them the guards and those refugees who were brave enough to remain on deck were milling around as the scent of the smoke reached them, unsure what to do. Helia looked out over them and back to Galle and the girls. Femi and Arya both nodded encouragingly, but he just watched, waiting impassively to see what she’d do. The Valmese girl took a deep breath and smoothed her red tunic, closing her eyes and muttering to yourself.

“You are Helia of Valm, daughter of Walhart the Conqueror and General Pheros of Steiger, you can do this… you are Helia of Valm, daughter of Walhart the Conqueror and…”

She repeated this mantra a few times before looking up, a spark of authority in her eyes as she turned and strode out towards the milling guards.

“To arms!” she called, her voice strong. “Men of Valm, to arms! Prepare yourselves for combat! Station scouts on the forecastle deck and the port and starboard walkways! I want to know the second whatever is burning comes into view! Lookouts! Now!”

As she strode away Arya practically bounced over to Galle’s shoulder and grinned up at him.

“That was almost nice of you,” she said.

“I just didn’t feel like doing it myself,” he said with a shrug.

“I’ll bet that’s what it was,” Femi teased, elbowing his ribs. “You big softie.”

“Knock it off before I throw you off the ship,” Galle deadpanned.

* * *

The smoke, as the passengers of the unnamed dreadnaught had found out nearly an hour later, had been from the wreckage of the ship that had been ahead of the _Fata Obstant_. The _Ad Gloriam_ had been adrift and aflame, and the nameless ship had been forced to alter course to avoid it. They had passed close enough to feel the heat of the flames, the timber hull of the ship popping and crackling as the heat dried out the persistent seawater when they passed.

It had only taken Robin a moment to know that there would be no survivors aboard. The upper decks had caved in, the hull leaning and dangerously close to collapsing in on itself.

Then a few days later they came upon another lifeless, smoldering wreck. Then another. By the time they reached the Plegian coast they had passed the burned-out hulls of all the ships that had gone before them.

“Clarus,” Chrom breathed, his knuckles white on the railing he leaned on. “I cannot believe a man that grew up in my kingdom, in my city, could do this…”

Next to him Robin gave a noncommittal snort, leaning down to rest his elbows on the railing. Much to his disdain the closer they came to Plegia, the worse the effects of his lingering Grima taint became. The tactician had steadily been growing weaker again. For the last two days he had been coughing up blood again, too. The wound where his finger had been had become swollen and an angry red color, black veins spreading out from the injury up his hand. His wrist ached, as did all of his old scars, and his head perpetually throbbed.

Chrom glanced down at the tactician as he blearily stared out at the distant coast, close enough now to pick out details on the beach.

“I can believe it,” Robin slurred after a moment. “He came from somewhere good. While someone like me came from… there.”

He finished the sentence by waving his bandaged wounded hand in the general direction of the coast.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Chrom asked. “You could stay with the ship and go straight to Ylisstol with the others.”

“Nah, you lot couldn’t find the ocean if you fell off this ship,” Robin chuckled weakly. “Besides, it’s me she’s been calling to. I will admit that I’m not really feeling a hundred percent right now, though.”

“You don’t say,” Chrom said with a small smirk. “I trust you, Robin, even if some of the others don’t. If you believe this will aid us and the refugees, then we need to risk it.”

“Gods I wish I was so confident in my own decisions,” Robin snorted, straightening. “And ‘others don’t trust me’ is underselling it a little, don’t you think.”

Chrom snorted now, shaking his head and leaning back against the railing. Robin had intended to travel with as small a group as possible. Only himself, Chrom, Arya and the Deadlord. Then he had tried announcing this fact and all hell had broken loose among the Shepherds. Sully had started shouting something about Robin having gone off the deep end while Vaike had been laughing until he realized that Robin was being serious. A number of them had simply shown tired resignation, shaking heads or muttering to themselves. Owain had declared a new quest, and Tharja had quite confrontationally questioned his sanity. All of this had continued until Basilio had thundered for them to shut up, shouting over the top of the irate Shepherds so that Robin could explain himself.

In the end the group that was joining them was far, far larger than he was comfortable with. He, Chrom, Arya and Simia were still going, but now most of the others were joining them, too. Ricken had been first to sign up, calmly stating that with Robin out of commission they would need an adequate mage. Then Tharja had sneered they would have one because she was going. Olivia and Gaius had stepped forward at almost the same time, the dancer being quicker but shrinking back from the gaze that Gaius had shot her. The thief hadn’t said anything, just shrugging and motioning her ahead, and Olivia had claimed that she would feel more helpful joining them. Sully had threatened bodily violence if she was left behind, and Maribelle had done much the same in a far more eloquent fashion. Then Owain had claimed he was ‘channeling the spirit of his cousin’, and that Lucina wouldn’t let either Chrom or Robin out of her sight given the circumstances, so neither would he.

Those remaining had agreed to join the refugees and continue on to Ylisstol. Basilio would be in charge, and Idallia had actually looked relieved when he’d said they were staying. Femi and Galle had given concerned looks to Arya, who had smiled confidently at them in return. Cherche and Cordelia both looked uncomfortable with the arrangement, but had agreed to the fact that they couldn’t well all go with Chrom and Robin; someone had to watch over the refugees.

“Sully was rather adamant,” Chrom mused, replaying the scene in his mind.

“The word you’re looking for is ‘terrifying’,” Robin muttered.

As he spoke the tactician ran a hand through his hair and winced as his fingers brushed the cracked skin on the back of his scalp. His hand came away with long threads of shite hair hanging off it, and Robin shook the hair off his hand, glancing up to make sure Chrom hadn’t noticed. He shook his head a little before drawing his hood up and giving a tired sigh. 

Chrom glanced back at him with some concern and led the injured tactician back down to the main deck. Robin took the stairs slowly, holding tightly to the handrail. Hanging from the side of the ship were the three rowboats that the Shepherds would be taking to the coast, Valmese volunteers waiting to the side so they could bring the boats back once the Shepherds were done. The rest of the group were waiting near the boats, their packs filled with supplies and gear for their journey through the hostile desert. 

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Chrom declared. “Anyone who wants to stay with the refugees, speak up now.”

There was a moment of silence before Sully rolled her eyes and snorted.

“Have any of us ever changed our mind?” she asked.

“No, but it makes me feel better about ordering you all into danger if I give you the chance to back out,” Chrom chuckled.

The Exalt’s weak attempt at humor went mostly ignored, Sully and Basilio both offering token snorts and no one else reacting. Chrom cleared his throat awkwardly, and Robin rolled his eyes.

“Make any last preparations,” the tactician said. “Captain says they can’t stay here too long, so we’re in the boats in five minutes. Double and triple check your water supply; I sincerely doubt we’ll find any potable water in Plegia.”

“Place was already a dustbowl before Grima,” Vaike said sourly.

Chrom seized upon the chance to get the group moving again and stepped forward.

“Exactly, so everyone makes doubly sure,” the Exalt declared.  

The Shepherds started to move, checking nearby bags and talking among themselves as Robin sidled up to Chrom.

“Have you even glanced at your own bags?” he asked slyly.

“That’s what I have Cordelia for,” Chrom shrugged.

As if on cue Cordelia appeared at his shoulder, holding a large travelling pack.

“Some of my husband’s bad habits have worn off on me,” she said, somewhat sheepishly.

“He’ll never learn to take care of himself at this rate,” Robin shook his head and chuckled.

His laugh turned into a cough, though, and he struggled not to double over as he waved off Cordelia and Chrom’s concern.

“I’m fine,” he assured them.

“Uh huh,” Chrom nodded, unconvinced. “Arya! Come here, please!”

The girl in question perked up in the crowd where she had been saying her farewells to Galle, Femi and Helia, trotting over. The shackled Simia followed at a more sedate pace, a foul expression on the Deadlord’s ashen face.

“Yes, Lord Chrom?” she asked.

Robin grinned a little as he watched her; she wouldn’t meet the Exalt’s gaze, but she hadn’t stuttered. Progress.

“You are hereby in charge of the Shepherds’ most important position,” Chrom declared. “The ‘Robin-watch’. Usually Cordelia or Lucina would be doing it, but it’ll have to be you this time.”

“Really, Chrom?” Robin deadpanned.

“The Exalt is being serious, this is a real thing,” Cordelia said with a small grin.

“I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted,” Robin admitted, quirking a brow.

“Shall I kill them, master?” Simia hissed, red eyes narrowing.

Robin snorted. “I would honestly love to see you try, but no. Shush.”

“Just… make sure he doesn’t do anything too stupid,” Chrom said, turning back to Arya. “No jumping off flying pegasai.”

“Oh, one time!” Robin groaned.

“And no traipsing through wolf infested forests,” Cordelia added. “Or wandering off with the entire Ylissean Royal Family without telling their Commanders.”

“Hey, those two actually went well,” Robin muttered.

“And make sure he doesn’t over-exert himself,” Chrom finished.

“I am not a child!” Robin snapped, coughing a little again.

Arya was at his side in an instant, her hand rubbing comforting circles on his back.

“Please relax before you give yourself another coughing fit, sir,” she said with a shy grin.

“They’ve ruined you,” Robin deadpanned. “The others have ruined you. You used to be such a nice, quiet girl. I blame Galle. And no, Simia, you can’t kill him either.”

The Deadlord in question closed her mouth, her perpetual scowl softening almost to a pout.

“Cordelia, I’d like to leave a letter with you for this world’s Lucina, if I could,” Chrom said.

“That’s our cue,” Robin said, turning away. “I’m gonna get the first spot on the boat.”

“I’m right behind you!” Chrom called after him.

“No rush,” Robin muttered.

Behind him Arya and Simia followed, the Deadlord’s shackles clanking with every step she took. Still, though, she didn’t complain. Robin often found himself musing that it was nice to finally have a follower that actually did what he told them to, but the circumstances ruined his fantasy. They passed through the Shepherds and milling crew, the refugees giving Simia a wide berth as they passed. The Deadlord gave them a savage grin until Robin shot a glare over his shoulder at her, and she went back to scowling at the decking between her feet.

The small sloops, like the one that they had used to board the _Fata Obstant,_ waited suspended in the air above the ocean, ready to be lowered as soon as the Shepherds were finished with their preparations. At the boat Robin was brought up short for a moment, but sighed and climbed aboard the gently swaying vessel.

“I’ve given up trying to argue people out of coming with us,” he commented, sitting down. “But for conversation’s sake, what’s your excuse?”

Across from him Say’ri turned her single remaining eye on Simia as the Deadlord stepped into the ship, sliding into the seat next to Robin. Arya followed, wilting a little in the intense older woman’s presence.

“I refuse to let that creature out of my sight,” Say’ri said coldly.

“It’s a better reason than Vaike’s ‘I’m getting seasick’,” Robin shrugged. “But what about your people?”

Say’ri was silent a moment, her gaze drifting downwards as a look of pain crossed her face. Before Robin could utter the apology on the tip of his tongue, though, she spoke again. Say’ri’s gaze snapped back up, fixing a baleful glare on Simia again.

“My people are gone,” she said. “Mostly because of this creature. If there is something I can do to help the remainder of them… even something as foolish as chasing dreams…”

“Hey, we’re trying to keep that part need-to-know,” Robin warned.

Beside him Arya glanced up incredulously, her unspoken question clear. Robin, however, chose to ignore her curiosity for now.

“Well, get comfy and enjoy the ‘following Robin’s random nonsense’ ride,” Gaius said cheerfully, suddenly sitting behind Robin.

Arya and Say’ri both jumped, but Robin being used to this just glanced over his shoulder.

“Took you long enough,” he smirked.

Gaius shrugged. “Hey, I’m not part of your ‘lost puppy’ brigade. Besides, I like to keep you guessing.”

* * *

A weak breeze blew across the hull of the nameless dreadnaught, carrying with it the familiar scent of dust and sand and heat. Even in this gods-forsaken future, even after the world as they knew it had ended, some things never changed. The smell instantly made Galle scowl and spit off the edge of the dreadnaught. Even here he couldn’t escape the phantom of his past.

“Charming,” Femi muttered at his side.

“Force of habit,” Galle growled. “I hate the smell of Plegia.”

Unbidden, Helia gave a cursory sniff from Femi’s other side.

The trio were watching as the sloops that the Shepherds were on slowly faded into the distant haze of the waves, bound for the very same place Galle detested so. Not far away the remainder of the Shepherds that were staying with the refugees stood almost mournfully, watching the same scene. The refugees still on deck had already gone back to their tasks, civilians being barred from the port side that the sloops had launched from for extra security. Not that many of the civilians had come above deck in recent days. Since they had passed the burning wreck of the _Ad Gloriam_ morale among the refugees had plummeted, many seemingly just giving up.

“I don’t smell anything,” Helia said softly.

“Sand. And decay.”

The trio turned to see Ita watching the boats not far from them, standing alone near the railing with her arms crossed.

“Oh,” was all Helia managed in response.

“I’m surprised you didn’t go with them,” Femi commented.

“My people need me,” Ita said, eyes flicking over to the dark mage. “They need a strong leader.”

“Plus, Robin ordered her to stay here,” Galle added.

Ita growled and spat, violently turning back to watch the boats. Her hair beads clacked at the motion, swaying with the movement.

“And why are you here and not there?” she snapped.

“Because Robin ordered me to stay, too,” Galle shrugged with a small grin. “And I really, really hate Plegia.”

“You hate your homeland?” Helia asked curiously.

“Please, don’t get him started or he’ll never shut up,” Femi groaned.

Galle rolled his eyes, prodding the dark mage in the ribs. She retaliated with a small spark of purple lightning magic that missed his fingers by millimeters, the static tingling his fingertips.

If nothing else, their little journey to the ‘future’ had made Galle new friends. Something he’d have to rub Rance’s face in when he got back.

“I had a rough childhood,” Galle said. “Without knowing the history that can never actually happen here I can’t really explain it.”

“Why can’t it happen?” Helia persisted.

“Because they won,” Galle said softly, going back to watching the departing ships. “Robin and the Shepherds. They killed Grima in our own time.”

Helia sucked in a small breath, leaning on the railing and watching the ships now, too.

“Every time I hear that it gives me a little thrill,” she admitted. “The idea that he can be killed. That he can be made to pay for all of this. I had stopped believing. But…”

“They did it once, they can do it again,” Femi supplied when she trailed off. “Right? We’d probably all just get in the way.”

“Speak for yourself, manspawn,” Ita scoffed, turning and striding away, her hair beads clacking again with the movement.

The trio watched her for a moment before Helia gave a sigh and went back to watching the sloops.

“Mila what I’d give for even a small amount of her confidence,” the Valmese girl muttered.

“It’s pronounced ‘ignorance’,” Galle smirked, still watching Ita. “And yes, I know she can still hear me.”

Ita responded by flipping a very rude human hand gesture over her shoulder, not even breaking stride.

“Did…” Helia began, shooting a curious glance at Galle. “Did you speak to Robin? To apologize?”

Galle sighed, leaning back against the railing and looking down at the deck.

“No.”

“Told you he wouldn’t,” Femi scoffed.

He shot the mage a glare, and she just smirked again.

“They’ll be back,” he grumbled. “I’ll… do it when they get back.”  

* * *

 

Despite the advent of Grima’s resurrection, or perhaps because of it, the deserts of Plegia had not changed much at all. After passing through the beach the Shepherds entered the southern badlands proper, many secretly grateful for the perpetual twilight surrounding them. The constant ashy dust mixed with the existing sand and grit, and now the entire party with the exception of Simia had tied scarves or rags around their faces.

With the scarves and the lack of harsh sunlight they were able to ration and conserve water far more efficiently than they had during their previous marches through the country, and they progressed at a steady pace. For a week Robin and Tharja led them through the desert, Tharja assisting Robin’s navigation however she could. It had been a long time since either of them had been to their destination, and the previous time they had had a guide.

For a time, Robin quietly worried that they had gotten lost, and he had led the Shepherds to their deaths. However, on the ninth day Robin perked up, happily reporting that he had spotted some familiar landmarks. Tharja agreed, recognizing rock formations from maps she had studied in her own youth.

Throughout their journey, though, Robin’s health continued to decline. By the time the Shepherds came upon the small, hidden shelter that Robin and his companions had found in the desert after their first war with Plegia he could barely stand unaided, and Arya had to half-carry him into the small domed house. He stumbled a little on the threshold, practically falling with his back to the closest wall and sliding to the floor with a relieved groan.

The Shepherds all piled in one by one, quickly filling the small house. Chrom stopped in the middle of the circular room, looking around. Vaike wasted no time finding a small patch of wall and sliding his own back down like Robin had. Sully moved immediately to keep watch, eying the thin scaffolding balcony around the upper windows inside the house and climbing up. Say’ri gave a small relieved sigh as she sank onto the first chair she spotted. This continued until everyone was inside and secure, the mood turning slightly festive as they were finally given a chance to relax.

“Ah, by the gods it’s good to be out of that dust,” Chrom said as he practically tore the scarf off his face.

“How can it still be so hot when there’s no sun!?” Vaike complained loudly.

“No wind,” Ricken said helpfully. “Makes the whole place feel stuffy. Like a house shut up in the winter.”

“It can only be a good omen for our quest!” Owain declared.

Robin glanced up, doing a quick headcount as he carefully pulled his own mask down to hang around his neck. He sat up a little when he realized that Simia was missing, but Arya appeared at his side before he could become alarmed.

“I told Simia to keep watch outside,” the girl said tiredly. “She’s hiding in the rocks above the house.”

“Good call,” Robin nodded, slumping back against the wall. “Good to see you’ve been paying attention.”

“We’ll rest here for the night,” Chrom declared. “I want to take this chance while we have it; we’ll move again in eight hours. Get as comfortable as you can. I’m assuming Sully’s taking first watch. We’ll work off the standard rotation after that.”

“We’re not far now from our destination, so resting is highly suggested!” Robin added from his slumped position.

The silence after Chrom’s speech quickly became a familiar background murmur of camp, a sound Robin found both familiar and soothing. He watched as the Shepherds spread out, the women in the party claiming the rooms in the back while the men happily remained out in the common area. Ricken made a small fire in the central fire pit, the crackling flames doing much for the Shepherds’ mood as they settled in around it. He witnessed all of this with a small smile on his face, content to just watch his old friends from the side until Tharja approached and knelt down at his side.

“Show me your hand,” she said without preamble.

“What about your shoulder?” Robin asked defensively.

He moved to cross his arms but thought better of it.

“Hand. Now,” Tharja repeated.

Robin sighed through his nose and held up his injured hand, still tightly bound in the cleanest rags they had been able to find. Tharja gently stripped the cloth away, Maribelle making her way over as the mage worked, and inspected the ugly wound.

Large black cracks had formed in the back of Robin’s hand, the wound where his finger had been itself a deep, weeping red mess. The cracks on his hand mirrored the ones spreading beneath his hair on the back of his head, now creeping down the back of his neck. Tharja’s own dark magic backlash had begun to spread, too, visible now on her shoulder beneath her bodysuit when she removed her cloak. The other mages, too, were beginning to tire and feel ill. The very world itself was poisoning them now, at an increased rate.

As the Dark Mage prodded gently at the cracks in Robin’s hand he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, resting on the cool stone behind him. Tharja took another cloth and poured some of their precious water supply on it before setting to gingerly clean the wound.

“I can do that myself,” Robin said, cracking one eye.

“And you would do it as poorly as you bound the wound, no doubt,” Tharja shot back.

Robin rolled his eyes beneath closed lids, letting his friend work. Another set of footsteps approached, but Robin couldn’t be bothered opening his eyes to see who had come over.

“How does it feel?” Tharja asked.

“A little numb, honestly,” Robin sighed. “I wish you would have let me cauterize it.”

“You would have made it worse,” Maribelle chided softly.

“If we do not do something to stop this progressing you will lose the hand,” Tharja said matter-of-factly.

Arya’s gasp was joined by another familiar intake of breath, and Robin cracked his left eye enough to make out Say’ri standing a small way away now.

“Good thing I fight one-handed, then,” he muttered. “Not like we can turn back now. How are you feeling?”

“Stop trying to deflect attention onto me,” Tharja scolded. “I am not the one coughing up blood and being carried by a girl half my size.”

“I’m not… that small…” Arya mumbled indignantly.

Robin couldn’t help but smirk at his student’s newfound openness around them. It was more heartening for him than anything else they had found in this world.

“Is there any way to reverse the infection?” Say’ri asked softly. “Or at least halt it?”

“Distance,” Tharja said. “We need to get him back to our world, free of Grima’s taint.”

Robin finally opened his eyes as he felt his injured appendage pass into another’s hand, Maribelle holding him gently as she ran her staff over the wound.

“This may not be of much help, but it is all I can do,” she said, still managing to sound pompous even under these circumstances.

The tactician sighed again as some of the feeling returned to his hand.

“Much better,” Robin sighed. “Now I can do the most important thing again.”

“And that would be?” Tharja asked, clearly prepared to dissuade him from any magic or fighting.

Robin smirked, reached out with his injured hand and lightly poked the tip of Tharja’s nose with his index finger.

“Boop.”

The Dark Mage blinked a few times, utterly bewildered as the other women around him went from disbelief to trying to stifle their laughter. Maribelle recovered first, clearing her throat and standing as Tharja’s confusion turned to a scowl. The Dark Mage shot up, too, glaring down at Robin.

“Yes, clearly you are feeling better,” Maribelle said. “Call out to me if you feel you need my assistance.”

“Were you anyone else you would have lost that finger, too,” Tharja hissed dangerously.

Both women departed in opposite directions, Vaike wisely jumping out of Tharja’s path as she headed directly for the back room that the fairer sex had claimed. Robin just chuckled, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes again. He heard Say’ri shift, moving closer and kneeling down beside him, opposite Arya. The older woman reached out, gingerly taking his hand, and before Robin could ask what she was doing he gave a hiss as something was pressed to his wound. He realized, without opening his eyes, that she was binding his hand again.

“I can do that myself, too,” he said.

“Fie, but you were always terrible at it,” Say’ri said, a small smile rising to her lips.

“Say’ri-”

“I know,” she cut him off softly, hands momentarily pausing. “You are not him. Nor would I want you to be. But you are still my comrade, and you are still terrible at this.”

“She’s not wrong, a lot of dust got in there,” Arya piped up.

“Not helping, Arya,” Robin growled.

“Not trying to, boss-man,” the former-thief smirked.

“Oh, they did ruin you,” Robin sighed.

Say’ri gave a small chuckle, tying off the makeshift bandage around his wrist and rising.

“I will dispose of this on the fire,” she told him. “Make sure he eats something to keep his strength up.”

“I’m not dying,” Robin groaned, opening his eyes just to roll them.

In response Arya plopped down next to him against the wall, already rummaging through her bag for whatever provisions she could find. Say’ri gave a satisfied not and turned away, leaving Robin alone with Arya now. The quiet murmur of campfire conversation brought another small smile to Robin’s face, and next to him Arya paused and spoke without looking at him.

“You’re telling the truth, right?” she asked him quietly. “You’re not… actually going to die on me, right?”

“I hadn’t planned on it, no,” Robin sighed irritably. “Gods, you’re just as bad as the rest of them. Now give me food. Please.”

* * *

 

The next day they arrived at more familiar rock formations, Robin grinning beneath his mask at them. A small path wound through the rock formation, plunging the Shepherds from the constant twilight into even deeper shadow as they passed. Ricken and Arya both made small magical fires with some effort; casting spells in Plegia was hard enough at the best of times, but now that difficulty was increased. To Robin’s surprise it only took Arya a few moments longer than Ricken to add her own light. They came out of the small shadowed tunnel into a small depression in the rocks, almost a sinkhole filled with sand. Twin rows of broken, ancient columns led up to the familiar altar in the center of the space, and Robin gave a small sigh of relief.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been here,” he said, almost to himself. “I was almost afraid we wouldn’t find it.”

“Who was with you last time?” Owain asked, walking alongside him.

“Tharja, obviously,” Robin said, nodding towards the mage behind them. “But also Virion, Anna and Donnel. And this was where we met Fae for the first time.”

“Hope she likes visitors,” Vaike grinned.

“Chrom, front and center!” Robin called.

The Exalt came trudging wearily towards him at the head of the group, mirroring the rest of the party’s fatigue.

“If we’re going in it probably wouldn’t hurt to have Naga’s Awakened champion at the front with me,” he explained.

“Well, they’re your voices,” Chrom said from behind his mask. “Lead the way.”

Robin nodded, stepping carefully beneath the first of the ancient pillars. When nothing happened he nodded, satisfied, and began to trek towards the ruins with newfound energy. He slowed, however, when he realized that the ruins didn’t feel the same way they had before. The first time they had visited the ruins there had been a feeling approaching sanctity in the place, a lingering sensation of calm and timelessness that had initially made the travelers uneasy. Now it just felt like the rest of the desert. Cold, stale and empty. Sterile, that was the word Robin was looking for. The ruins felt sterile, which was even more distressing as he recalled how wonderous they had been before. Until it struck him that the ruins all at once felt too sterile, as if this was intentional.

“It doesn’t feel right,” Tharja said softly, echoing his thoughts.

“What does it feel like?” Sully asked, instantly on guard.

“Nothing,” Robin said. “It feels like… emptiness. Absence of life, of matter… which shouldn’t be possible. Something’s hiding this area, hiding whatever’s here.”

“Ooh, never could pull one over on you.”

The Shepherds halted, looking up as one at the voice that called down to them. Above them, perched atop one of the many columns peppering the sands, was the figure of a young woman with long, billowing green hair. She sat casually, one leg dangling as she rested her chin on the knee of the other, her arms wrapped around her bent leg as she smiled down at the visitors in the twilight.

“Fae? Fae is that you?” Robin laughed. “I don’t believe it! I’m so glad you’re alive here!”

He took a few steps forward, stopping as the manakete slipped from her perch, smiling wide in relief. His smile faltered as Fae transformed mid-fall. His eyes widened in panic as she bore down on him, batting the nearby Chrom aside with her tail and stomping down with her foreclaw on Robin’s chest, knocking him down and pinning him to the sand. She had never been as big as Tiki, but Fae was still easily twice the size of Nowi and Nah, and Robin resisted the urge to cry out as his injured hand was jostled. Then he realized he wouldn’t have been able to anyway as Fae pressed down.

“W-wait! Stop!” Robin managed to croak.

“Begging already, Fell-spawn?” Fae snarled.

Robin grinned up at her, shaking his head slightly.

“Wasn’t… talking… to you…” he wheezed.

Fae shifted, her draconian form taking in the scene around her. Tharja, Ricken and Arya all had spells primed and ready to release at the dragon. Olivia and Maribelle crouched not far from them, clearly intent on dragging Robin clear as soon as they got the chance. Leaving Chrom, Owain, Sully, Gaius, Say’ri and even Simia encircling the dragon, weapons drawn and pointed at her.

Surprisingly, it was the Deadlord that spoke first, her words a dangerous hiss as her red eyes glowed in the half-light. Robin had to resist the urge to roll his eyes when he realized Simia was holding a long Chon’sinian-style sword in both hands, totally ignoring the shackles on her wrists.

“Release the master and your passing will be swift,” Simia almost whispered.

Fae pulled back ever so slightly, and Robin took the opportunity to gratefully suck in a breath.

“Stand down!” he shouted. “We’re not here to fight! Fae, we’re not here to fight!”

Some of the Shepherds shuffled a little, weapons dipping, but no one moved.

“You cannot fool me,” Fae said, almost sadly. “You march here with human soldiers, yet you don’t even try to hide the Risen in your midst? Hubris, fell-spawn. I will not let you pass, no matter whose face you wear.”

“Lady Fae, please! Robin is not your enemy!” Chrom tried instead. “Look! I bear Naga’s brand! I’m holding Falchion! Why would I ally with my sworn enemy?”

“Yet I know that Exalt Chrom is dead,” Fae responded hotly. “Grima lies! Grima manipulates! I-”

“Robin is not Grima!”

Everyone turned to watch as Arya let her spell fizzle out, smoke still rising from her clenched fist as she stomped forward. She had a look of great distaste on her face, but as she got closer Robin could see she was blinking back tears. The girl stopped just shy of Robin’s head, standing over him and glaring up at the dragon. Fae actually brought her draconian head down to Arya’s level, matching her glare for glare.

“Really?” Fae asked, unimpressed.

Arya nodded, not breaking eye contact. “Robin is not, nor was he ever or will he ever be, Grima. Robin fought hard and almost died to avoid becoming Grima’s host. He has suffered greatly to remain who he is, and to keep his own soul. He endured suffering I cannot even begin to imagine to not only save himself, but all of us. That’s what you told me. Those were your words, not mine.”

Fae seemed to stop for a moment, leaning slightly closer and narrowing her eyes.

“I have no recollection of you, human,” she said at length. “Nor is Grima dead. You lie.”

“She’s actually not lying,” Robin said from beneath them. “We’re kinda… tourists?”

“We are from a different, parallel world where Grima was defeated,” Chrom reiterated. “Make no mistake, we fully intend to kill Grima again. But we could use your help.”

“Again?” Fae laughed. “You really expect me to believe that you killed him at all? It doesn’t work that way! You cannot fool me! You all stink of his corruption!”

“From where I’m lying, so do you,” Robin said.

Fae’s gaze snapped down to him, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

“Everything does,” Robin went on, before she could kill him for the insult. “That’s what he does. Grima’s power is coercive, a corruption, a cancer, and it’s infected everything left in this world. Including you and including us. We need to stop him before- will you get the hell off me already!? I feel ridiculous explaining this from down here!”

To everyone’s surprise Fae actually did step off Robin, shuffling backwards and glaring at the man as he slowly sat up. Once he was freed Robin was wracked with a coughing fit, almost falling back down as he doubled over. Arya and Simia were both at his side in an instant, the girl holding him up as the Deadlord placed herself between Robin and the Manakete.

“I’m not Grima, and that fact is what’s killing me,” Robin said shakily.

The tactician went to continue speaking but faltered when he saw a perfect mirror image of himself step out from behind one of the columns.

“Ominous. Also, a little over-dramatic,” his doppelganger said flippantly. “True, though. I can tell that much even from here. Stand down, kid. Boss wants to see ‘em.”

The draconian Fae gave the newcomer an incredulous look as he approached. The Shepherds, though, those who had fought against Grima in their own timeline, anyway, had a far more visceral reaction.

“Dammit! Form up! Protect Robin and the mages!” Chrom shouted. “Tharja, Ricken, give us some cover!”

The rest were already in motion, moving to protect the defenseless members of the group while the two mages began to prepare spells. The second Robin blanched, holding up his hands and rushing in front of Fae.

“Wait! Wait!” the doppelganger shouted quickly. “Clearly this was in bad taste! Okay, okay! I’m sorry! Hold on a second!”

There was a flash of light, and the second Robin appeared to shimmer and ripple, as if being viewed from under water. His features blurred and changed, until an exact copy of Owain was standing where the second Robin had been.

“Oh gods, like we needed a third one of him,” Robin groaned.

“Hey!” Owain barked indignantly.

“I can do more, wanna see?” Owain’s double laughed.

“Enough playing around, Xane,” Fae sighed, suddenly in her human form again.

“Bah, you’re no fun. Fine,” the second Owain sighed.

The flash of light and rippling repeated, and the Owain copy was replaced by a tall, thin man with bright red hair. He was approaching middle age, his long hair falling halfway down the back of his deep red tunic, and he wore no discernable weapons despite having just been carrying both Robin and Owain’s swords when he had been mimicking them. He gave the assembled Shepherds a roguish grin, reaching up to fiddle with the small white feather tucked behind one ear.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Xane of the Divine Dragons, at your service,” he said with a small bow. “Now, as I previously stated before little-miss-sourpuss ruined my fun, my boss would like to have a word with you all. Except the Risen. That thing can stay up here with Fae. Don’t eat it, girl, you know what those things do to your digestion.”

Simia responded by narrowing her eyes and hissing, but Robin cut her off by stepping around her, limping forward.

“You’re a dragon too?” he asked, in awe.

“Eh, kinda,” Xane shrugged. “If I said I ‘was’ a dragon, would that be good enough for now? C’mon, we’re burning daylight here, let’s go!”

“Wait! Where are we going? Who are you?” Chrom asked, stepping forward with Robin.

Xane glanced back over his shoulder, heaving a long, theatrical sigh. The red-haired man turned, taking all the Shepherds in at a glance. 

“Naga definitely didn’t choose your line because of your family’s intelligence, did she?” he muttered. “Okay, let me make this simple. My boss has asked me to bring you to him. I’m also supposed to mention that no harm will come to you or any members of your… party.”

He hesitated at the end, gaze lingering on Simia. The Deadlord scoffed and spat in the sand.

“Okay,” Robin said with a nod.

“Okay? Just like that!?” Sully snapped. “I seem to remember you havin’ a bit more common sense!”

“When did Robin ever have common sense?” Ricken sighed.

“Anyone who doesn’t want to come can stay here with Fae and the Risen,” Robin said, rolling his eyes. “Anyone else can come with Chrom and I as we follow the… uh… weird… shape-shifting former dragon? I’m sorry, what are you, anyway?”

“I’m Xane, milord, and that’s all that I am,” the red-haired man laughed with another bow. “So, who’s coming?”

There was a brief clamor among the Shepherds as it was decided that Robin, Chrom, Arya, Tharja, Owain and Olivia would go. Say’ri, Sully, Gaius, Maribelle and Ricken opted to remain with Simia, the Deadlord visibly unhappy about being separated from Robin.

“Alrighty!” Xane clapped excitedly. “Fae, play nice! The rest of you, follow me, please!”

The eccentric man set off with long strides, Robin and Chrom exchanging a glance before following after him. Chrom walked with one hand on Falchion’s hilt, Arya never drifting far from Robin’s side. Xane led them to the center of the ruins, where Robin remembered the foundations of where a great building had once stood made up a sort of altar. There was nothing at the center of the space this time, and with a sinking feeling Robin realized that there was no familiar magical resonance here.

“Okay, my new human friends!” Xane declared with a big smile. “This may be a bit disorienting at first but try not to throw up. Boss!? We’re ready for ya!”

As he finished Xane stomped one foot in the center of the altar expectantly. There was a moment of silence as the Shepherds waited for something to happen and Xane chuckled, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head.

“Sorry, it takes him a little bit sometimes,” the shapeshifter said. “He is kinda old.”

As Robin opened his mouth to question who, exactly, they were waiting on he was seized by the familiar sensation of teleportation magic. Olivia and Arya both looked slightly panicked, and Chrom gave him a worried look. Robin just shrugged. After all, they had come this far.

There was a familiar flash of light and sense of displacement, and Robin and the others found themselves standing in a well-lit cavern.

Arya gave a low groan, bending over slightly and holding onto Robin’s shoulder to keep herself upright. The tactician laughed, reaching over to rub circles on her back until the teleportation-nausea abated.

“Where are we?” Chrom asked, looking around.

“You are in the last sanctuary of the Manaketes, Awakener,” someone said from behind them.

The Shepherds turned, coming face to face with a wizened old man in ancient robes, his long white beard falling well past his waist. Xane linked his fingers behind his head, whistling a little as he nonchalantly moved to stand behind the old man’s shoulder.

“I am Gotoh, and I bid you welcome to our home,” the old man said with a tired smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I did say I was getting this story finished… even if it kills me. If I were a smart man I would have planned ahead, put Robin’s dream-calling stuff into earlier chapters. Next chapter: DLC Map 1! Eeeeee!  
> ANNOUNCEMENT TIME!  
> Metallover’s back, and in a big way! After a few months of soul-searching and rejection letters I’ve decided that this is where I belong for now, and I’ve got plans for the next few years’ worth of stories. I’m rocking a Patreon account now, so check the link on my bio and just below and give it a look! Please consider dropping a few bucks for my work, I’d really appreciate it. By doing so you’ll not only be supporting me, but you’ll be getting access to drafts, previews and exclusive video-blog posts! Also, like, chapters early and stuff. Maybe art? Original works? Who knows! It’s gonna be great!  
> https://www.patreon.com/metallover


	27. Chapter 27

With a puff of sandy ashes and displaced air Clarus appeared on a beach, taking a few steps forward before catching himself. It was hard to control the inertia from the teleportation spell sometimes, but he was starting to get the hang of it.

Even after so many years as a mage he was truly surprised that something could still awe him so; in fact, until he’d discovered the Grima-remnant he had been using in his experiments in Ylisse he had long given up on doing much more than pretending to do ‘further research’. There just wasn’t any space left in anima magic for advancement, and the damned sand-rat Dark Mages were so hung up on keeping their secrets there was little work he could do there, either. But leave it to those like Robin and the Shepherds to discover not only a magically reactive ore, suffused with Grima’s life energy as it had been, but a long-forgotten magic relic that allowed for instantaneous travel. True teleportation.

He gave the old ring a small smile, still marveling at its simplistic design, as a pitiful screech came from the jewelry and the scarab-like insect in place of the burned-out gem twitched a few more times before turning to ash.

It had been, he wasn’t afraid to admit, a stroke of genius to use the Thanatophages as a catalyst for the spell in place of the magic gem that Robin had so foolishly squandered. Infused with Grima’s purity of essence, the insect-like creatures were almost uncontaminated magical energy. He didn’t even need to force them, either; as soon as he’d had the thought one of the small creatures clinging to him had crawled down his arm and right up to the ring, apparently waiting for him to remove the gem so it would fit.

And the results had been perfect, better than he’d imagined. It had totally removed the need for his previous plan of creating a catalyst from the life force of the wretched refugees, leaving him free to experiment with ‘Risenification’ as he was calling it. ‘Creating Risen’ didn’t have the same scientific flare to Clarus as ‘Risenification’. It rolled off the tongue.

“Risenification,” Clarus muttered to himself, as if to prove the point.

Across his chest, beneath his robes, the Thanatophages that had joined him stirred at the sound of his voice. He shushed them gently, assuring the small creatures with his thoughts that everything was okay and they weren’t needed yet.

Clarus almost began salivating at the thought of taking the ring apart, studying the magical matrices that made up the tiny spell circles in the gem’s clasp. So small, so impossibly tiny; impossible to have been carved by human hands. That alone made him curious. What could have created such a relic? The thought, the very idea, of new magical knowledge, gave the mage more of a thrill than any success, any sexual conquest, anything. He wanted to know. He needed to know, from the bottom of his soul. It was that yearning that had led him to accepting Idallia’s request in the first place, and had led his initial experiments on the ore.

Which brought his thoughts back around full circle, to the reason he was standing alone on a deserted, twilight beach.

He had to resist the urge to giggle, so giddy was Clarus at the thought of the knowledge awaiting him in the desert.

_“Come to me.”_

Those had been Grima’s orders.

Setting the boats along the way to the torch, full of repulsive, squalid, screaming refugees, had been his idea.

Watching them writhe beneath his feet like maggots on a corpse, burning their ships from underneath them, hadn’t brought him pleasure. Quite the opposite, it had been a waste of resources, a waste of potential test subjects on the matter of the Thanatophages. Clarus had dearly wanted to take his time, work his way through the boats one after the other. He had wanted to study, to document, how the changes from ‘person’ to ‘risen’ occurred in different environments, under different circumstances, with different control groups. Would the effects have been faster on children, due to their smaller size? Would women be affected differently than men? Or the filthy demi-humans that had been among the refugees on the very last vessel, what would the Thanatophages done to them?

Such a waste, Clarus couldn’t help but feel. Although there would be time in the future. He simply had to be patient.

Clarus had to stop for a moment, blinking down at the grey sand in confusion.

Why had he burned the ships, then?

There had been no reason to, and it had been a waste of potential test subjects… so why?

As if in response to his internal query one of the many Thanatophages on his body crawled out from beneath his sleeve, alighting on his hand. Clarus brought his appendage up to eye-level, looking curiously to the little insect-like creature as its antennae gently weaved through the air.

“Did you have me burn those ships?” he asked curiously.

No response was forthcoming, the Thanatophage scurrying around in a circle on the back of his hand before crawling into the gem clasp of the teleporting ring.

“Very well then,” Clarus laughed.

The little creature’s message was clear. ‘Get on with it’. The master was waiting.

Clarus closed his eyes, feeling his senses expanding. It wasn’t hard to focus on any sources of magical energy in Plegia; all he had to do was follow the withered, empty ley lines with his sixth sense and focus on the closest one. There. Familiar magic, like the shade that had visited him in the wasteland that had once been Valm.

Opening his eyes Clarus licked his lips, pallid stump of a tongue running over their cracked surface, tasting blood. He wasn’t sure when they had become so chapped, but then again, he wasn’t sure when he had last had any water. Or food. He was being sustained now wholly on Grima’s magical energy.

The Thanatophages stirred again, the pricking and clawing of their feet on his skin singing a blissful agony to him. They spoke, not in words but in his mind. And at last Clarus understood.

Perfection. He realized he was close now to Grima’s perfection. He had cast aside the wasteful human need to take in sustenance, and long ago had he stopped needing to sleep. Was this truly what Robin was so afraid of? What Maris’ foolish warrior’s pride had held him back from?

Were they all so truly afraid of this completion?

Clarus’ eyes glowed red as he looked out to the dunes on the horizon, smile pulling at his cracked and bloody lips again. It was a far distance, but the Thanatophages assured him that he could make it in a single jump.

The ring on his finger flared.

The Thanatophage screamed as it was consumed, the sound like music to the mage.

And Clarus was gone from the beach.

* * *

Ever since the captain and navigator had agreed that they were passing into Ylissean waters the deck of the nameless dreadnaught had been packed. Helia had needed to ask Basilio and the Shepherds for help maintaining Robin’s ordered schedule, lest there be too many refugees on deck in the case of an emergency. Ita had thrown herself into this task with great relish, whipping and cajoling the other wolves into helping her, Galle suspected just to keep their minds off of the loss of their Queen. The refugees that made the trip to the upper deck themselves were almost shades, silently watching the shadowy coastline drift by, marveling at the scraggly clumps of grass and the occasional withered tree as the soldiers and wolves escorted them.

Galle leaned against the railing of the nameless dreadnaught, craning to see the coastline on the lower tier of the forecastle deck much like the refugees on the main deck beneath him.

What he saw didn’t fill him with hope.

A few broken trees and hardy grasses and weeds still clung to life in the dead ground, but Galle had been hoping for more. He wasn’t expecting the lush grasslands and rich forests they had passed through during Robin’s little cat and mouse game with Maris and Idallia, but what he saw now looked little better than the Plegian badlands he had once called home. And he knew from experience that there was no point trying to grow anything in those types of places.

And there was no movement. No life. No animals, no people, only the gentle swaying of the thin grasses in the weak breeze. Galle found it both disconcerting and disheartening.

Helia, on the other hand, was more animated than he’d ever seen her. The young Valmese lord leaned forward on the railing next to him so far that her feet almost left the deck, an unabashed smile on her face. Hers was an expression of hope, hope that Galle couldn’t find it in himself to quash with his usual brand of sarcastic pessimism. Unable to resist, Galle had to scoff a little at his newfound softness. Mari would probably call it personal growth, though.

Helia cast him a sidelong glance, clearly having heard Galle’s self-derision and misconstruing it. She spoke before he could explain, though, her smile becoming somewhat melancholy as she went back to gazing at the distant coast.

“I know it doesn’t look like much to you,” she said softly. “But you saw Valm. You saw what those monsters did to my home. Even the withered grass, the dead trees, are an improvement. You must think that very sad.”

“No, I grew up in Plegia’s badlands,” Galle shrugged. “It just reminds me of home.”

“The home you hated?” Helia asked without looking at him.

“The home I left behind,” he said.

“Gods but you two are depressing,” Femi groaned behind them. “Look! Grass! Actual grass! I always hated Ylissean grass, makes me sneeze, but now I’m actually happy to see it!”

Galle and Helia both looked back, the Valmese girl giggling a little as Galle sighed. Femi stood with her arms crossed and her hood thrown back, grinning expectantly at them as the wind barely managed to tousle her long black hair.

“Hello Femi, so nice of you to sneak up on us,” Galle deadpanned.

The Dark Mage just shrugged, holding up one foot.

“Wasn’t sneaking. Traditional Dark Mage sandals are soft-soled. Makes it easier to walk around on the sand,” she explained.

“Thank you for that lesson in traditional mage footwear,” Galle said, his tone fairly dripping with sarcasm.

Femi laughed, pushing past him and resting her hands on the railing now, too, to look out at the coast.

“There’s the sarcastic Galle we all know and tolerate,” she chuckled.

“I liked you more when Tharja was around holding your leash,” Galle muttered.

“Well I like you more like this,” Helia laughed. “It’s nice to finally have a girl my own age to talk to.”

“And that’s why you’re my favorite,” Femi said, scooting closer to Helia and sticking her tongue out at Galle.

The Plegian tactician just rolled his eyes, brushing his hair out of his face with a frown. After so many weeks without wind or breeze he had gotten used to his hair staying in one place. Mari would probably say he looked ‘shaggy’, but in truth his fringe just barely now fell into his eyes. The plus side of the wind, though, was that now they were making faster progress towards the docks at Southtown, and would supposedly be there ‘any minute now’ according to the captain. Of course, the captain had been saying they would arrive ‘any minute now’ for days.

Out of the haze of sound behind them a set of footsteps approached, and Galle glanced over his shoulder to see the local soldier Victor exhaustedly shuffling towards them, seemingly weighed down more by the small clipboard in his hands than his steel armor.

“Heya Shepherds,” he greeted, his gaze widening as he noticed Helia. “And, uh, good afternoon Lady Helia, ma’am.”

“Good day, Victor,” Helia greeted with a regal smile.

The soldier seemed dumbstruck for a moment, blinking in surprise. “You know my name?”

“Exalt Chrom spoke very highly of you,” Helia explained. “I made it a point to find out who you were.”

“Ah. Well. Thank you, ma’am,” Victor said woodenly, his cheek darkening slightly.

“Focus, Victor; you came over here for a reason,” Galle deadpanned.

“Right, the reason,” the soldier said, perking up slightly. “Before she left Lady Say’ri put me in charge of… uh… ‘liaising’ with the wolves. I’m looking for Ita. She is the one in charge, right?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Femi said. “It’s kinda hard to tell. All she does is yell at the other wolves.”

“To be fair, that was pretty much all Queen Nirath did as well,” Helia added with a sad smile.

“She’s avoiding you, isn’t she?” Galle asked, a grin breaking out on his face.

Victor sagged, closing his eyes in frustration.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Well, she high-tailed it out of here pretty fast before,” Galle laughed. “I guess she heard you coming. After that it’s pretty easy to put two and two together.”

“Great,” Victor groaned. “Which way did she go?”

Galle pointed in the vague direction that Ita had headed when last he’d seen her, and Victor nodded his thanks before following after her. But before the Plegian tactician could even begin to feel any sympathy for the soldier a cry went up from the upper forecastle deck, snaring everyone’s attention.

“We’ve spotted the docks! Prepare for disembarkation!”

The tactician had to resist the urge to laugh at Victor’s anguished groan, the Valmese man throwing his hands up in the air in his frustration.

“Dammit Ita, I know you can hear me! Where in all the hells are you!? We need to talk about disembarking! Ita!”

The trio watched him stalk off shouting through the throng of suddenly very busy sailors and soldiers. There was a moment of silence as they waited for Victor’s form to disappear in the press before Galle finally spoke up.

“He realizes that Ita won’t do anything anyone but Robin tells her to, right?” the Plegian said.

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Femi replied impishly.

“Har-har, very funny,” Galle deadpanned. “Let’s go see if we can’t find the Khans or someone on the big important deck.”

“We can’t go up there, though,” Femi pointed out.

True, the Shepherds and all but the most important of the refugees had been banned by the captain from the upper forecastle deck, where the ship’s steering and officer cabins were, for the duration of the voyage. But now that their journey was finally at its end Galle found himself no longer caring for such social niceties.

“So? We’re with her,” he shrugged, jerking his chin in Helia’s direction. “And she’s in charge. I figure that makes us important enough.”

“You just want to do it because you were told you weren’t allowed,” Femi snorted.

“True, but also currently irrelevant,” Galle admitted with a small grin, turning to Helia. “What say you, oh fearless leader?”

“We should go the forecastle deck,” Helia said decisively. “Even if Khan Basilio isn’t there the Captain can still give us some information.”

Galle nodded and grinned a little, indicating towards the building-sized deck at their backs, still more than a hundred meters away. Sometimes it was easy for him to forget the true scale of the ship, even after spending so much time on it.

“Lead the way,” he said.

As they walked down the deck, Helia leading with her head held high, Galle had to marvel at the way that the crowd parted almost unconsciously for the young noblewoman. He had to admit, he was getting to like having her around, if for no other reason than she made getting around the ship’s crowded decks easier.

The more energetic refugees on deck and some of the laxer soldiers were crowding the side of the ship facing the coast, all craning and hoping to see the docks in the distance. A pointless endeavor, Galle knew; the man in the crow’s nest had a spyglass, and would have passed on word of spotting the docks.

As the two Plegians followed in Helia’s wake the mage looked at the coast through the crowd, making a thoughtful sound.

“Never thought I’d be this excited to get back to Ylisse,” Femi commented idly.

Galle couldn’t help but scoff. “Clearly you didn’t live in post-Grima Saiqat. Gods above I was so happy the first time I realized I’d crossed the border out of that dust-filled hell.”

“Hey, some of us are proud of our heritage,” Femi defended with a pout.

“I’m plenty proud of our heritage,” Galle shrugged. “I don’t know about you, but I can trace my family all the way back to Khadein in the days before the Theocracy was even founded. It’s what we became after Grima’s Fall that I’m ashamed of.”

Helia glanced back over her shoulder and smiled at the other two before Femi could argue.

“The way the two of you talk of life after the Fell Dragon, while grim, still fills me with hope.”

In the face of the blonde woman’s hopeful smile Galle’s biting remark died on the tip of his tongue, the Plegian settling for sighing out his nose and otherwise remaining silent. Femi noticed his reaction and shot him a smirk, Galle narrowing his eyes as she gave a small laugh.

“Yeah, we’ll beat that scaly jerk yet,” Femi laughed, still pointedly looking at Galle.

“Oh, hey, look, stairs!” Galle said over-exaggeratedly. “Wouldn’t it be fun if we climbed to the top and someone pushed me back down? Preferably so I land on my head?”

“Oh, knock it off, you,” Femi snorted. “Come on, we have work to do.”

Helia led them up the first flight of stairs, past the two exhausted-looking guards standing at attention. Femi followed closely, Galle moving at a more sedate pace until the dark mage turned and shouted for him to keep up. With an irritated huff Galle jogged up after them, the trio coming out onto the first tier of the forecastle deck. Sailors moved around them in a storm of activity, many showing more animation than they had during the entire voyage. There was much that needed doing if they wanted to dock safely, and Galle found himself wondering if, in fact, the sailors had been conserving energy for this very reason.

A second staircase led up to the deck proper, where the captain could usually be found bossing the helmsman and the navigators around. Helia didn’t even slow, the sailors parting for her just like the refugees and soldiers as she marched right up to the stairs and ascended with the two Plegians behind her.

The ship’s captain stood next to the railing with his back perfectly straight, his faded and patched naval uniform, while practically hanging off his emaciated frame, still lending him an aura of control and authority despite the fact he looked as exhausted and weak as the rest of the refugees. And older man, the close-cropped hair beneath his peaked tricorn hat was a dark grey fading steadily to white, his face like old leather from years on the sea battling the elements. Helia wasted little time, striding right over to the man and clearing her throat.

“Captain,” she greeted.

“We’ve spotted the Ylissean Southtown Docks, young mistress,” the Captain said, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“What do you estimate our time of arrival is?” Helia asked confidently.

“Another hour, perhaps two at the most,” the old man shrugged.

“Plenty of time for you to get cleaned up, girl,” another voice said. “You look like one of the rabble. You are supposed to be their leader, after all. You should look the part, as I do.”

Galle rolled his eyes. “The only reason you’re so clean, ‘Khan’ Idallia, is because you haven’t done anything since we got on this tub.”

Idallia huffed and crossed her arms as she approached them, glaring at the Plegian boy. The Captain turned to face them, stroking his thick white beard with a neutral expression on his face as Helia stepped up to the other woman.

“You believe I should?” Helia asked uncertainly.

“It would surely be a better use of your time than standing around doing nothing up here,” she said, pointedly shooting a smirk at Galle.

“You would be the expert on that,” he muttered, smirking back.

“Unfortunately, you already have the market cornered on sarcastic comments,” Idallia shot back.

“I can see this won’t end any time soon,” Femi sighed. “Come on, Lady Helia, I’ll help you clean up.”

The Valmese girl nodded, looking to the Captain.

“By your leave, Captain?” she said.

“Aye, you’ll be no help up here right now, anyway,” the old man smiled. “You can use my cabin. I still have some clean water in there you can use to wash yourself and polish your armor with.”

“That’s very generous of you, sir,” Idalia said with a very Chon’sinian bow.

“I will be with my navigators if you need me,” the Captain said without looking at any of them. “There were stories of shallow reefs near Ylisse, I’d prefer we not run aground this close to our destination.”

The two girls and one old man parted then, leaving Galle and Idallia standing alone near the railing. They watched the organized chaos of the deck in silence for a few moments, Galle marveling at the calm and controlled manner of the Captain as he took all of these interlopers in his space in stride. Every other ship’s captain he’d ever dealt with had flat out refused to allow passengers of any sort or rank even near the important areas of the ships.

He glanced over at the lilac haired woman leaning on the railing next to him, her arms crossed and her lips pursed, and he had to smirk. Unfortunately, he couldn’t help himself.

“Hag,” he said with a grin.

“Brat,” she shot back.

“Where’s your favorite meat-shield?” Galle asked with a chuckle.

“Off on the rigging somewhere,” Idallia sighed, shaking her head. “He said some nonsense about wanting to be the one who got to shout ‘land ho’, never mind we’ve been in sight of the coast for weeks. The simple fact that that man now rules a nation fills me with dread.”

“He’s also technically your boss,” Galle added.

“Did you come here for a reason, or just to harass me?” Idallia snorted, glaring out of the corner of her eye.

“It’s just a bonus,” Galle shrugged. “I got caught in the girls’ wake.”

“Typical male, dragged around by the first pretty face that will give you the time of day,” Idallia sighed theatrically.

Galle rolled his eyes, choosing to ignore her comment as he considered just how he had ended up in a relationship with his girlfriend in the first place.

The time passed quickly as they waited for the docks to get closer, the pair trading barbs and insults almost unconsciously as they watched their slowly approaching destination. Helia and Femi returned after long, the Valmese girl looking far more presentable in her polished red plates now. Femi had apparently helped by combing the other girl’s long blonde hair, although the traditional Plegian braids Femi had done did look strangely odd in Helia’s blonde hair. The young Valmese noblewoman fidgeted nervously next to Galle now, watching the docks growing closer with the rest of them. It was at that point that Basilio suddenly dropped down from the rigging above, an almost child-like grin on his face as a visibly incensed Idallia rolled her eyes.

The docks themselves were dark in the constant twilight, no torches or lamps to be seen. They were abandoned, too; no vessels, Ylissean or otherwise, were moored at wooden posts. Fortunately, the channel was deep and the unnamed dreadnaught came up close, far closer than Galle would have thought possible. A testament to the skill of the ship’s sailors, he reasoned.

“Movement,” Basilio rumbled softly, his one eye scanning the dock.

“Risen?” Helia asked.

Basilio was silent a moment, then shook his head.

“I see light reflecting off armor,” he reported. “Risen armor is always matte black when they wear it.”

“Natives, then,” Galle deadpanned. “Goody. They’ll be so happy to see a thousand new mouths to feed-”

Femi elbowed the tactician in the ribs to silence him, but judging from the hitch in Helia’s step the damage was already done. To their surprise, though, she barely hesitated.

“Then we earn our keep,” she declared, crossing the deck to the gangplank. “We work. We fight. We do whatever we have to. Mankind can no longer stand divided.”

“Well said,” Basilio chortled. “But the boy makes a good point.”

“If anyone will take us in, it’s the Ylisseans,” Femi said hopefully.

“Yeah, because Plegia’s probably empty by now,” Galle snorted.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d hate that,” Femi said sarcastically.

Basilio silenced them with a glare, both Plegians falling silent as Helia stopped at the top of the gangplank. Victor was waiting with the ship’s captain, both looking at her expectantly. Galle spotted Ita not far away, the wolf woman standing before the last of the mobile members of her race with her arms crossed and a sour look on her face.

Helia took a deep breath and nodded, a determined expression on her face as she undid the buckle of her sword belt and handed the whole thing to a stunned Victor.

“We go unarmed,” she declared.

“That is a very stupid idea,” Idallia said.

“Yet it is my order,” Helia said, a hint of steel in her tone.

Idallia huffed, crossing her arms and turning away slightly. Basilio chuckled, dropping one hand on her shoulder as he carelessly dropped his axe on the deck. Rolling her eyes, Idallia brushed his hand off and emulated Helia’s actions, shoving her sheathed sword into Victor’s arms.

“I want that back when I return,” she said, her tone low and dangerous.

The Valmese man’s eyes widened and he nodded quickly.

Galle smirked as he passed his spellbook and short sword off to another refugee soldier, who took Femi’s spellbook, too.

Helia then drew herself up, projecting a, in Galle’s opinion, passable aura of regal importance, before descending down the ramp. Basilio and Idallia followed, the Ylissean-born Khan still frowning. Leaving Galle and Femi to bring up the rear.

Galle found it odd how no one had pressured the young leader to take an honor guard. If they had been Ylissean or Plegians a crowd of immaculately presented soldiers would have crowded her the moment the gangplank dropped, but the Valmese had left well enough alone. Whether this was cultural or simply due to rampant exhaustion was another question entirely, though. To the Valmese’s credit, though, Victor did follow them down the ramp after passing the weapons off to the captain.

The gangplank bent and wobbled under their weight, the salty, dead fish stink of a costal town heavy in the air. Looking around Galle spotted movement, the same that Basilio had. Figures hidden in buildings, lurking in shadows between them. Occasional glints of reflected light off armor and weapons, hidden within abandoned warehouses and shacks around the docks.

As their feet touched the old, decaying wooden docks Helia looked around, almost seeming surprised no one had come to meet them.

“Hello?” she called into the twilight. “We are refugees from Valm! We come seeking aid and shelter! Will someone come forth to treat with us?”

A sound, rustling and movement, hushed whispers, surrounded the refugees now. More movement, clearer this time, as some figures retreated and more came forward into the dim light. They were wretched looking villagers, barely any better than the Valmese people crammed into the hold of the dreadnaught. A small crowd of them, perhaps twenty or so, formed around the base of the gangplank, eerily silent save for the shuffling of their feet and rustling of their clothes.

“Please,” Helia repeated. “We have hundreds of people, starving and sick, on this ship. All we ask for is what food you can spare. Once we have recovered we can-”

“Leave,” one of the villagers said.

“There’s nothing for you here,” another added. “We barely have enough for ourselves!”

“Get back on your ship and go!”

Helia flinched as if struck, and with a snort Basilio stomped around her to glare down the villagers with his giant arms crossed.

“Is this how the people of Ylisse treat their guests!?” he boomed.

“No, no it’s not! Stand down!” a new voice called from the buildings.

Galle and Idallia both froze, eyes widening in twin expressions of disbelief at the new voice.

A small and ragged squad of Ylissean soldiers appeared from between the buildings, marching purposely towards the crowd near the ship. The villagers began to shrink away, not from fear but rather, it seemed to Galle, from shame. The soldiers themselves didn’t look much better than the villagers, but their equipment was clean, and unlike most of the Valmese refugee soldiers their armor were in complete sets still. All three of the Ylissean southern states were represented in the squad, blue tabards and tunics outlined with Ylisstol’s gold, Themis’ white and Jagen’s purple. The man in the lead, wearing heavier armor than the rest, wore Themisian colors along with a full-face helm, obviously having once belonged to a cavalier.

“You people should be ashamed,” the helmed man said, his voice carrying despite the helm. “The last Exalt’s edict was that no refugees be turned away, no matter their circumstances, and it still stands! Return to your homes. Find the mayor, have him meet us at my command post. Now!”

The villagers began to disperse, some casting weak glares at the small group of refugees, most just staring at the ground as they left. Galle couldn’t help but notice there were still dozens of eyes watching them from the shadows.

The Ylissean soldiers formed up, some stumbling a little as they formed a barely passable line for an honor guard. Clearly the Valmese didn’t have the monopoly on exhausted and inexperienced soldiers.

“Apologies,” the helmed man said. “It’s been… rough all around lately.”

Basilio snorted again, his eye narrowing in suspicion as he stepped aside for Helia.

“No, no apologies are necessary,” Helia said, coming forward with her best smile. “Given the bad blood between our nations I was expecting such a reception.”

“Our Exalt says we don’t have the time or resources left to waste fighting between ourselves, and I agree with her,” the helmed man said, seeming to perk up as he remembered something. “Ah, but speaking of horrible manners here I am still wearing my helm. Please forgive me.”

He reached up, Galle and Idallia both holding their breath now. Long, thin lilac hair fell down out of the helm around a face of strong, patrician features. His eyes were lined, and he was thin to the point his cheeks were far sharper than they remembered, but his skin was still smooth and pink beneath his rugged stubble and his eyes had none of the red tainted glow from before.

“My name is Maris, formerly of Themis, Captain of the Exalt’s Reclamation army.”

Before Helia could respond Idallia snarled, stomping forward. Maris reeled back in surprise, his eyes widening further as he recognized the woman advancing on him with murder in her eyes.

“Sister?” he asked, his voice shaking. “Idallia, is that you? How can-”

Any other words from the bigger man were cut off when Idallia’s fist flashed out and broke his nose.

* * *

Robin slowly turned along with Arya, marveling at the cave the Shepherds now found themselves in. The walls were smooth, jutting stalagmites and stalactites filling corners and appearing randomly throughout. It looked as if a few had been cleared from the ground to provide more space, opening pathways deeper into what appeared to be a natural cave system behind them. It was cool, but not dark. Ambient light came from crystal formations growing from walls and stalagmites, giving off a cool blue glow that seemed to make the entire scene appear as if they were under water. The persistent gentle dripping sound in the background further added to this.

“Gotoh. As in… the Great Sage? Advisor to King Marth?”

Chrom’s awed whisper brought Arya’s attention back to the tableau before them, but Robin wasn’t overly surprised. Very little would continue to surprise him these days. She clearly didn’t recognize the name ‘Gotoh’, although the Hero King Marth the entire world knew well. But Gotoh had been ancient even by manakete standards when the Hero King had walked the earth; there was no way this old man could be him.

Xane scoffed behind the sage, throwing his hands up in the air indignantly.

“Oh sure, everyone remembers you but no one ever talks of the brave infiltrator that saved the Altean Knights time and again!” the red-haired man bemoaned.

“Now is not the time, Xane,” Gotoh warned.

The younger man scoffed, crossing his arms and glaring petulantly for a moment before sighing. The old man gave Xane a warning look for a moment before turning back to the Shepherds.  

“And yes, Awakener, I am what remains of the Great Sage,” he explained.

And suddenly the old man’s identity made sense to Robin. Clearly, the others didn’t understand, though. At the tactician’s side Arya looked up questioningly, and Robin just shrugged, indicating she watch.

“What… ‘remains’?” Chrom repeated slowly. “I don’t understand.”

“Chrom,” Robin piped up. “You’ve met Naga. Naga’s phantom, her spirit. Gotoh was also a Divine Dragon. Connect the dots.”

“Oh. Oh!” Chrom said, eyes lighting up before his face darkened into a frown. “Could you have said that less condescendingly?”

“Probably,” Robin shrugged with a grin.

“I like him,” Xane said to Gotoh. “The Fell Blood. He has spunk. I like that.”

“Thanks, Xane,” Robin said with a roguish grin.

“Easy to see where Galle picked it up from,” Arya muttered beside Robin.

“Is he right?” Chrom asked, turning back to Gotoh. “Are you Gotoh’s spirit?”

The old man had been smiling wistfully as he watched the Shepherds speaking amongst themselves, but drew himself up again as focus returned to him.

“Even without my physical form, I am still Gotoh,” the old man explained. “Just as Naga was still herself after being released from her mortal form. But this is not important. I know why you have come. To seek aid against the Fell Dragon, yes?”

“Actually, we came because someone called to Robin,” Chrom said.

“That was I, Awakener,” Gotoh said.

“Well… what about Nagi?” Robin asked, brow furrowing slightly.

“Nagi is… gone, now,” Gotoh said sadly. “We few are all that remain. We acted too late to stop Grima’s advance, and for that we pay with our race’s extinction.”

“Wait, you mean you are all that’s left of the manaketes period?” Robin asked, eyes widening.

“Aside from the young halfblood, yes,” Gotoh nodded.

“Wow, that’s… honestly not what we were hoping to find,” Robin admitted.

The tactician reeled from the news, swaying a little on his feet. Arya was at his side in an instant, the smaller girl steadying him with both hands on one of his shoulders.

“Then why did you call to Robin?” Chrom asked.

Gotoh chuckled, his eyes crinkling as he smiled a little.

“Just because we are all that remains of the manaketes does not mean we are helpless,” the old man explained. “And it does not mean we have no aid to offer you. Assuming, of course, you intend to stop the Fell Dragon?”

“I suppose you can’t just teleport us home?” Tharja drolled, speaking for the first time since they had arrived below ground.

“I am afraid not,” Gotoh laughed.

“We will do it because it is our duty,” Chrom said solemnly. “We cannot turn away from this world’s suffering and just hide in our own. That’s not what Shepherds do.”

“Alright, enough preaching,” Tharja snapped.

“It was a good question,” Robin interjected. “I was just waiting for a better time to ask it.”

“We cannot abandon these people!” Owain half-shouted.

As he spoke the blonde man took a few desperate steps towards Chrom, the yearning, puppy-like expression on his face causing the Exalt to grin and drop a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.  

“We won’t,” Chrom told the younger man.

Before anyone else could speak further Xane appeared between the two men, draping his arms over their shoulders with a huge, toothy grin on his face.

“Well, this is touching,” the red-haired man said. “I’m touched. And motivated. And a little hungry.”

“Xane…” Gotoh said, his tone one of warning.

“What? You may be dead, but the rest of us still have to eat!” Xane laughed, turning to put his face uncomfortably close to Owain’s. “Hope you guys like mushrooms, ‘cause that’s all that grows down here.”

Gotoh sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before turning to Chrom again.

“I would extend to you and yours what little we have in the way of hospitality, Awakener,” the Great Sage said. “However, the… Risen will have to remain outside.”

“Deal,” Robin said before Chrom could answer.

The Exalt turned a weak glare on him, and the tactician shrugged. Chrom gave a long sigh, shaking his head before addressing Gotoh again.

“We would be honored to take you up on your offer, Great Sage.”

“I will bring the others inside with Fae, then,” Gotoh nodded. “Xane will watch over the Risen until you are ready to depart.”

“Wait, Xane will do no such-” was as far as the red-haired man got before he disappeared.

The teleportation spell was similar to the one that had been in his ring, Robin was curious to note. A brief flash and the once-manakete was gone, Owain sighing in relief as his personal space once more became free.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Gotoh said with another kindly smile. “Once more, I welcome you to our home.”

* * *

Opening his eyes slowly as the teleportation spell wore off, Clarus glanced around as he waited for his vision to clear. Even through closed eyelids the flash of the spell could still be disorienting. He made a mental note to ask Robin about how he overcame it next time they met.

If he could stop the younger man trying to kill him for just five minutes, anyway.

Really, they would get along so much better if Robin would relax a little. Clarus knew what it was like to be high-strung, remembered his days as a teacher in Ylisstol…

What he couldn’t remember was how long ago that was now.

A day? A lifetime?

One of the Thanatophages crawled across his shoulder and around his neck, the little creature’s passage a gentle caress against his pallid flesh.

Of course, his past life was unimportant.

With these thoughts passing idly through his head the mage turned slowly around to survey the place that the Thanatophages had brought him. A ruin of some sort, still intact. It was the first whole building he had seen since coming to this forsaken world. Walls and ceiling of stone, scattered torches casting light across the dank, cold space. Empty cells in a central room, bars facing outwards, walkways between the cells. All still in surprisingly good shape.

Clarus took a few curious steps before he noticed the dozens of Risen watching him from the shadows. Their glowing red eyes, so much like his own now, watched his progress intently. In the center of the cross-shaped gap between the cells a figure rose from where it had been kneeling, Clarus curious how he had missed it the first time.

“And just what are you?” a woman’s voice asked.

The Thanatophages chirped inside his head, writing excitedly across his flesh.

“Are you the master?” Clarus asked, ignoring them.

“I may very well be yours, worm,” the woman sneered.

She turned to face him, her hood drawn low over her face and obscuring her eyes. The ends of her shoulder length brown hair peeked out of the hood, her skin pale and blotched. She wore a tight black jacket with stylized silver pauldrons, obviously meant for riding, and thigh-high boots beneath a short skirt. On her cheeks were carved two stylized Grimleal eyes, the wounds glowing a pale red in the darkness.

“You are not Grimleal. They know better than to interrupt me,” she went on. “Who are you? Why do you come bearing Master’s gift? Why do I not know you?”

Clarus smirked unbidden. She spoke like the more curious students he used to get back in Ylisstol, all questions. And now that he had heard her speak some more he could tell that she was, in fact, still quite young.

“I called him here, sister,” a new, male voice called out.

The girl turned as another figure entered the space, a heavy wooden door swinging closed behind him.

“Daraen,” the girl hissed, obviously not pleased.

“So you are the master?” Clarus asked, tilting his head curiously.

“The master in indisposed,” the new figure, Daraen the girl had named him, said. “I sensed your presence, and felt you could be of use.”

As he spoke he stepped into the light, Clarus barking out a laugh. He was barely older than a teenager, messy brown hair streaked with black and eyes glowing the same malignant red as Clarus and the Risen’s. He had the same stylized eyes carved into his cheeks as the girl, too. But most amusing was he was wearing an exact copy of Robin’s coat.

“You do not decide that-” the girl started, before Daraen cut her off.

“Valm is purged, but we lost Simia,” he said plainly, the Risen around them shifting uneasily at the revelation. “We have an ‘open position’, as it were. Why not fill it with him in the interim, Morgan? It makes sense.”

“Morgan…?” Clarus repeated to himself curiously.

Now that he looked closely, what he could see of the girl’s face did bear a passing resemblance to Chon’sin’s Ylissean ambassador… it would stand to reason that this world would have equivalents of people in his own, making him wonder what had become of himself in this different timeline.

The girl clicked her tongue, turning away from Daraen and crossing her arms.

“I don’t like it when you make decisions like this without consulting Master first,” she said, almost petulantly.

Daraen grinned, exposing long white fangs as he stepped around the girl and strode up to Clarus excitedly.

“So? Would you like to help us? I’m sure if you did the Master would feel obliged to reward you. Maybe even make you one of his Chosen.”

“Daraen, I don’t like this,” Morgan repeated, being ignored.

“You’re the one that called to me?” Clarus asked, narrowing his eyes. “The one that promised to teach me?”

“Yes,” Daraen said, his grin growing wider. “What do you want to know?”

Clarus’ face split in an answering grin.

“I already told you. I want to know everything.”

* * *

Robin lay awake on his cloak in the darkness some hours later, the persistent throbbing in his hand keeping him from any meaningful rest for the fifth ‘night’ in a row. The Shepherds had chosen to rest in one of the darker side caverns, many of them simply laying out their packs and falling asleep on the hard stone without so much as a word of complaint. Chrom chief among them. Robin could usually sleep almost anywhere, too; except for ships at sea, but that was for different reasons.

With a soft sigh the tactician sat up, fighting the now-familiar wave of vertigo and nausea as he did so. With no small amount of effort he rose and donned his coat, careful not to wake Arya sleeping on her own pack next to him, before he shambled out of the small side cave and into the dim light of the main cavern. He pulled the hood of his coat up over his thinning white hair as an afterthought.

Gotoh was nowhere to be seen, and Xane was still ‘topside’ with what had apparently been a very incensed Deadlord. Fae, however, glanced up as Robin shuffled into the space, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. The dragon-woman sat cross-legged on the flat surface of one of the low-cut stalagmites, her seated glare at eye-level with the tactician.

Robin held his hands up in the universal sign for peace, smirking a little in the shadows of his coat’s hood.

“Just stretching my legs,” he muttered, trusting the manakete’s enhanced hearing to carry his words.

Fae snorted, her frown not abating.

“Your spawn spoke very eloquently in your defense, but I still don’t trust any of you.”

“One, she’s not my spawn,” Robin chuckled, bracing his good hand against the cavern wall to keep his balance. “Two, I seem to recall us being friends in my own world.”

“As we were here once, too,” Fae shot back. “Then I watched you eat half my kin.”

Robin paused at that, a shadow passing over his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said at length.

“For what?” Fae asked. “You’re not him, right? Why do you insist on taking responsibility for the Fell Dragon’s actions?”

Robin gave an awkward chuckle, lifting his hand to run it through his hair but thinking better of it and letting the appendage drop again with a shake of his head.

“Force of habit,” he shrugged.

Fae continued to eye him for a moment before she breathed a shallow sigh, her face softening slightly.

“Yes, you were always like that,” she muttered, almost inaudibly. “Go. Stretch your legs. I… will be here if you need me. Don’t touch anything.”

Robin nodded, a small smile rising to his dry lips. Feeling a little lighter now that he knew Fae wasn’t about to transform and eat him Robin let his feet carry him randomly through the tunnels, following the faint glow of the bioluminescent fungi that lit the space. It was quiet, soothing, and before Robin knew it he had wandered far from the small cave the Shepherds had claimed and into another cavernous space.

With a hushed gasp Robin looked around, marveling at the space.

Pillars of blue crystal, some as tall as a man while others were the size of buildings, filled the space. The weak light was reflected off their glossy surfaces almost like chunks of ice, lighting the chamber and momentarily blinding Robin.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

The tactician jumped, resisting the urge to yelp in case the sound echoed and woke the others. He cast a glare to the side of the entry tunnel where Tharja was standing, marveling at the strange crystals much as he had been a moment ago.

“Never figured you as a geology fan,” Robin said, moving a little closer to his old friend.

The Dark Mage matriarch shook her head. “Not the crystals. Look inside them.”

Robin quirked his brow but did as he was told, hobbling towards the nearest pillar of crystal. He was startled to realize that resting within was a thick, heavy lance, easily as tall as he was. The head of the weapon was the length of his forearm, and the blade was as wide as both his hands side by side. 

“Gradivus,” another voice said.

Robin and Tharja both spun as Gotoh faded into existence behind them, the old man’s face wearing a kindly smile.

“One of the three great holy relics of Archanea, wielded by the Emperor Hardin during the time of King Marth’s reign. Mercurius and Parthia are here, too.”

“Wow,” Robin breathed.

He stepped forward again, enraptured by the sight of the ancient lance, and gently placed a hand against the surface of the crystal. Rather than being cold he found the strange stone to be oddly warm, almost body temperature.

“Wait, does that mean…” Robin said, eyes widening as he looked back over the room.

Gotoh gave a good-natured chuckle, smirking a little as he strode slowly through the room, the mage and the tactician moving to follow.

“Yes, Fell Blood,” the Great Sage said. “Each of these crystals houses a relic. This is something of a museum, protected by the strongest magic the last of the manaketes could muster.”

“This is… incredible,” Tharja muttered from Robin’s side.

Robin smirked as he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Despite how aloof she acted usually Tharja was still a mage, still a scholar, and clearly she was just as excited as he was at the thought of what could be lurking in this cave.

“Not all are weapons, mind you,” Gotoh went on. “There is artwork as old as human civilizations, sculptures and paintings. Ancient spellbooks with magic that has long since been lost to mankind. Historical texts, poetry and-”

Both men paused as Tharja gave a strangled gasp, darting towards one of the crystals. Resting within was a plain-looking old spellbook with a stylized silver skull emblazoned on it, but even Robin’s eyes widened as he read the flowing, archaic script on the cover.

“Imhullu,” Tharja breathed, resting her hands on the crystal. “The Demon Wind. The… original Dark Magic. From before Grima. This… I didn’t think it actually existed.”

“I assure you, it does,” Gotoh said, a sour look crossing his face. “Even though the Darksphere is lost, rendering its field of invincibility inert, Imhullu yet remains.”

“This could… change everything!” Tharja said, spinning back to them and becoming more animated. “This could totally change our very understanding of the nature of Dark Magic! Master Gotoh, you must let me study it!”

Gotoh was silent a moment as both humans turned to look at him, before the ancient sage sighed and closed his eyes.

“No,” he said softly.

“No?” Tharja repeated, confused. “But… I… think of the possibilities!”

“All I think of when I see that tome is the damage it caused,” Gotoh said slowly, his gaze suddenly weary. “It may predate Grima’s taint, but Imhullu is just as wicked, just as coercive. I cannot allow another to fall to its darkness.”

“I was born in the darkness!” Tharja hissed, baring her teeth. “I am no paltry novice! I am the matriarch of an entire generation of Dark Mages! No one knows more, has more control and mastery over the art than me! I am not afraid!”

“And what would you do with the knowledge once you gained it?” Gotoh asked.

This brought Tharja up short, the woman opening her mouth to respond before closing it again and drawing back. She appeared to be debating how best to respond to the Great Sage; to use the same biting, haughty tone she spoke to most everyone with, or to be openly honest.

“I wish to know,” she said softly, clearly deciding on honesty. “Understand. Were it too dangerous, I would take the knowledge to my grave with me. But… if it could help even a little to create a new breed of Dark Mage, one free of Grima’s yoke, I would gladly bear the burden.”

“And if you could not bear the burden?” Gotoh asked solemnly. “If the magic drove you mad, as it did my poor student Gharnef all those millennia ago?”

“Then I trust Robin to strike me down,” Tharja said without hesitation.

“Hey, don’t drag me into this,” Robin scoffed. “I’m curious, sure, but I’m already coming apart at the seams. I don’t need the extra strain of more dark magic.”

Tharja cast him a glance before stepping up, face to face with the venerable sage, and looking him in the eye.

“I wish to study Imhullu, to help my students, and perhaps to help Robin,” she said clearly. “Please, Master Sage, allow me this boon.”

Gotoh held her gaze, the moment stretching out, his face unreadable before he finally frowned. Behind them the crystal flashed, Imhullu suddenly exposed to the air atop a small plinth where the crystal once stood.

All at once Robin was almost overwhelmed by the tome’s malignant aura, a feeling of cold dread climbing up his spine and clutching at his heart as he gazed at the book. Ancient voices long forgotten whispered at the edges of his consciousness, and in his weakened state Robin almost heeded them. He unconsciously leaned forward, only coming back to himself when Gotoh placed a warm hand on his shoulder.

“You may not remove the tome from these caves,” Gotoh said gravely, dropping his hand. “You may not remove the tome from this room. You may not cast the spell in these caves. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes!” Tharja said, already turning to snatch up the book.

She instantly dropped to the ground, crossing her legs and leaning over the pages as she cradled the tome in her lap. As she poured over the first few pages she held up a hand, a small magical fire appearing above delicate fingertips to aid her reading.

Robin snickered and shook his head, Gotoh sharing a conspiratorial smile with him.

“So much changes, yet so much remains the same,” the sage sighed. “You do not wish to read it, too?”

“I’ll get the main points from Tharja later,” Robin shrugged. “She reads faster than me, I don’t need the headache I’d get trying to keep up. But you’ll forgive me for being curious as to why you have all this… stuff down here.”

Gotoh chuckled, stroking his beard.

“Yes, I was getting to that before the Lady Mage became distracted,” he said, before growing somber again. “We waited too long. By the time the manaketes came together and reached a consensus to act, Grima had already become too powerful for us to stop. Dragons from as far as Tellius faced him down in Regna Ferox, a gathering of our kind which has not been seen since we became tied to human form and dragonstone. Beings once worshipped as gods, powerless before Grima’s wrath. We were slaughtered. Humbled, the last of us retreated here with what relics we could. We took to collecting many more, in the hopes that we could at least leave some reminder of the world that was, and in the hopes of keeping such powerful weapons from Grima’s grasp.”

Robin nodded, digesting this information as they strolled through the rows of crystal.

“If what you say is true, then you have an armory here that could give us the edge against him,” the tactician said hopefully.

Gotoh gave a small, genuine laugh. “Child, I have already decided to give what we can. Imhullu is a special case, as are a few other items, but aside from those everything here is at your disposal.”

“So, you believe us, then,” Robin stated.

“I did from the moment I reached out to you,” Gotoh said, smiling kindly. “It was the others I wished to convince. I would ask you take Xane and Fae with you when you leave.”

“I won’t say no to more help, but… why?” Robin asked slowly.

“They are the last of us,” Gotoh said, his smile turning sad. “They deserve a more glorious death than slowly fading away in these dark caverns.”

Robin nodded, silent for a moment before he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. A slow, steady gait, more of a shuffle than actual walking. From behind some of the larger crystal formations a small, hunched figure emerged, clad in a tattered and patched red robe pulled low over its face.

“Ah, visitors,” the figure said, his voice slow and breathy. “Smells like humans in here now. It’s been quite some time since anyone alive has come to view our collection, eh Gotoh?”

“Yes, old friend,” Gotoh said with another small smile. “Yet I fear they will not be staying long.”

“Ah, pity,” the robed figure sighed. “We do so rarely get visitors these days. You are quiet, visitor! Where are you! Speak!”

Somewhat taken aback Robin looked to Gotoh for explanation, only to find the Sage had disappeared.

“Yes, he does that,” the robed figure scoffed. “Thinks it makes him mysterious. All it does is make him annoying! Now, where are you?”

“I’m right in front of you,” Robin said.

“Ho! It speaks!” the robed figure chuckled.

Narrowing his eyes, Robin knelt down to get an actual look at the robed manakete. An impossibly ancient face hid in the darkened recess of the robe’s hood. If Gotoh had been the picture of someone who had aged well, were he still technically alive, then this newcomer was the exact opposite. Deep, crag-like lines covered his clean-shaven face, his skin the color of old leather. A pointed chin beneath an equally pointed nose, most of his teeth missing when he smiled. What stood out, though, was the milky whiteness of his eyes. The old manakete was blind.

“So, does the strange creature have a name?” the old manakete asked.

“I’m waiting for him to give it,” Robin quipped before he could stop himself.

The manakete scoffed before chuckling, swaying side to side with a wide, gap-filled smile.

“Bah, kids these days, no respect… Fine! I am Bantu! Last of the Flame Dragons, guardian of the Divine Dragon and now the curator of this forgotten tomb.”

Robin almost fell over. “Wait. If he’s The Gotoh, does that make you…”

“The Bantu? Perhaps,” the old manakete said, shrugging his hunched shoulders. “It was once a fairly common name among my kind. Now! Answer me this, creature! What are you?”

Robin smirked. Clearly the old manakete had lost his senses as well as part of his mind to age.

“I’m Robin, tactician of Ylisse. And I’m a human. You know, one of those younger races that roamed around, fighting and killing each other for the last ten thousand years?”

Bantu snorted. “Nice try, Fell Blood, but I know a human when I smell one. And you are most assuredly not human.”

In the distance Robin heard Tharja drop the ancient tome she was reading in her shock, but Robin just sighed out his nose.

“So I guess I can’t hide it anymore,” he muttered with a shrug. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes,” Bantu said. “To me, anyway. And I’m blind! Gotoh, too, probably, but that ornery old shade has plans within plans within plans, so I’m not surprised he didn’t say anything. So, ‘Robin’, I know your name, but not what you are. What are you?”

The tactician shrugged and grinned beneath his own hood.

“If you know what to call it, I’m open to suggestions.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was an absolute slog. I don’t know why I had so much trouble with it. But I did. I also totally forgot to post it here, because I'm organised. *sarcasm*  
> Don’t forget you can support me on Patreon! Link’s on my bio page! I've also added a special Patreon-exclusive story to the rewards, so make sure you check it out if you're a fan of my 'lovely' self insert story.   
> And follow me on Twitter! - metalloverCAB


	28. Chapter 28

Morgan literally radiated anger as she stalked through the old Plegian prison, waves of incandescent mana roiling about her with each step. Clarus watched the spectacle of the young woman pacing and cursing her brother as a fool in silence for some time, surprised to find he was not the only one. A few feet away a helmed Risen with a single, cyclopean lens in the center of its helmet watched the girl intently, ignoring Clarus and the rest of the Risen beneath them as it tracked her movement.

They were in the overseer’s office above the prison, or what had once been the overseer’s office. An old bed sat off to one side, clean but clearly well-used if the bunched sheets were anything to go by. Stacks of old tomes sat against the walls, the only light coming from a few haphazardly spaced candles. It was clean, though, and it was shielded from the elements and the persistent dust, which was already two points in the small office’s favor. It was clear to the mage why Morgan had set up here.

She didn’t seem overly fond of the idea of working with Clarus, even less-so when Daraen had declared he was going to track and kill the Ylisseans who had recently stolen two relics from them. The younger of Grima’s spawn had left almost immediately, leaving Clarus and the moody older spawn to work together.

Four more of the Ylissean thieves had been captured trying to steal the two gems that were being kept in the prison, now locked in cells beneath them.

“Why were the Ylisseans trying to steal the gemstones?” Clarus mused aloud without intending to.

Morgan’s reaction was instant, her face contorting with rage as she wheeled on the older mage.

“Be silent, wretch!” she snarled. “I am sired by the master himself, and will not be questioned by a malformed-”

“Yes, yes, superiority complex, blah blah, I’ve dealt with royalty before,” Clarus waved her off. “What I’m curious about is the reasoning behind the Ylissean survivors - resistance’s? – actions. Are they really so desperate to try to perform an incomplete Awakening, or are they hoping for something else? It’s fascinating, how tribes react to disaster, isn’t it?”

The Risen continued to watch silently as Morgan gaped, her face actually turning red. Incoherent sounds were coming from her mouth as Clarus began to pace this time, muttering to himself while the girl and the Risen watched him this time. Clarus stopped suddenly, looking up at the girl with a glint in his eyes.

“I’d very much like to interview them,” he said.

“What?” Morgan spat.

“The Ylisseans,” Clarus said, as if he were explaining something simple to a particularly dense student. “I’d like to speak to them. I haven’t had any contact with locals yet aside from killing them. I’d like to speak to the Ylisseans.”

“Really?” Morgan asked, disbelieving.

“Of course!” Clarus said, his eyes taking on a manic light. “Observe, question, research. That’s scientific method. It’s how things are done! And for once, I can actually have my questions literally answered! This will be a lovely change of pace-”

“We are trying to exterminate them!” Morgan screamed, her shout echoing around the room.

This brought Clarus up short, the mage’s mouth hanging open a few seconds before he closed it and turned to face Morgan properly. There was a crease in his brow, a frown on his face as he tilted his head to one side and regarded the girl.

“Why?” he asked.

It was Morgan who was brought up short this time, blinking as her mouth went slack for a moment. She cast a quick glance at the Risen, still standing silently off to one side, before hardening her face and rounding on Clarus again.

“Ours is not to ask why!” Morgan defended hotly. “Our task is to break the Ylissean resistance and kill the Nagaspawn before the master returns!”

The girl hesitated, looking down and seemingly losing her steam for a moment before looking back up at the mage.

“And we’re running out of time,” she said, her tone much softer now. “He’s coming back.”

Clarus sucked in an excited breath. “Your master?”

“He’s yours now, too,” Morgan said, frowning.

“Yes, yes,” Clarus nodded excitedly. “But he’s returning?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “And I want the Nagaspawn dead before then!”

Taking a breath, Morgan drew herself up and cast an imperious glare at Clarus before speaking again.

“I will interrogate the prisoners myself,” she declared. “You will stay here unless I call for you.”

“Very well,” Clarus huffed. “I suppose there must be some more surviving Ylisseans somewhere for me to talk to…”

“Do not try me, mage,” Morgan spat.

Then, with a flourish of her coat, the young woman spun and stomped over to the stairs leading back down to the prison. For his part, Clarus shrugged and turned to the Risen as soon as Morgan had disappeared, grinning a little at the creature.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to talk?” he asked.

The Risen didn’t even acknowledge him, simply straightening and following after the girl down the stairs.

“I didn’t think so,” Clarus mused.

Then, with nothing better to do, he turned towards the piles of tomes. Perhaps there would be something interesting to keep him occupied until the girl realized she needed his talents. Beneath his clothes he could feel the Thanatophages stir across his flesh, the small insect-like creatures sensing his excitement.

As he began to peruse the old and weather-beaten books Clarus couldn’t help but feel a small, giddy thrill about the idea that soon Grima would return.

And with him, all of the knowledge he contained.

* * *

 

Robin moved slowly, wary of missing even a single detail as he wandered through the manaketes’ museum, fingers occasionally drifting out to brush against the warm crystalline surface of the stasis spells that kept the exhibits safe. He slowed, lingering before one of the crystals to study a particularly beautiful marble carving of a pre-Naga deity bearing a striking similarity to the Divine Dragon. A small plaque read ‘Mila’ in several languages, and Robin made a small sound of understanding; clearly this Mila had been the namesake of the ancient Mila Tree where Tiki made her abode. Oddly enough, the resemblance to Naga was uncanny, and Robin found himself wondering if the two had been related somehow during life.

His admiration of the artistry in the statue was interrupted, though, by a persistent sniffing sound from just behind him. Heaving a sigh, the tactician glanced over his shoulder at the strange old man that had been following him around for some time now.

“What are you doing?” Robin asked.

“Still trying to figure out what you are,” Bantu explained, before giving another long sniff.

“Any amazing insights I should know about?” Robin asked.

He moved to pass the old manakete, but before he could Bantu reached out and grabbed Robin’s uninjured hand, lifting it and quickly bringing it to his hood. There was a brief moment where something rough passed over his skin, and a shudder ran up Robin’s spine as he snatched the appendage back and recoiled.

“Did you just lick me!?” he almost shouted.

“Yes. Why? Do your kind not like that?” Bantu asked curiously.

“I don’t think anyone would like being licked by a strange old man!” Robin snapped, growing irritated.

“Oh, be calm, Fellspawn, I took no enjoyment from it,” Bantu chuckled. “In fact, you taste rather foul. Oddly human, but still just… not.”

“By the gods, are you daft?” Robin groaned.

“I am trying to read over here!” Tharja snapped across the room.

Both Robin and the old manakete flinched, the tactician giving a small grin as Bantu bristled at the tone Tharja had taken.

“Insolent humans,” the ancient dragon muttered. “In my day we were respectful to our elders…”

“Sometimes I forget how scary she is,” Robin smirked.

“I think she might be more threatening than Gharnef was,” Bantu chuckled in agreement.

Deciding to let sleeping dogs lie, Robin gave Tharja one last little smile before he started picking his way through the rows of crystal again. As before Bantu dogged his heels, but remained silently contemplative of the tactician, and Robin was content to ignore him for the most part. Much like Tharja, Robin had the same thirst for knowledge that all mages possessed. Right now, surrounded by such astonishing amounts of history, even weak and wounded as he was, he admittedly felt like Gaius in a candy store.

Slowly, Robin continued to peruse through the crowd of artifacts in the dim cavern. He longed for nothing more than to sit and study absolutely everything here, uninterrupted, but he knew that such a desire was folly. He also knew that he was wasting valuable resting time, but the allure of the unknown, of knowledge he didn’t possess, was simply too strong. Here, a sword wielded by the Saint-King Albein Alm Rudolf II of Valentia before he came into possession of his sacred weapon; there, an arrow that supposedly slew Regna Ferox’s first Khan; a row back, the original Excalibur tome, precursor to most of the modern wind magic; next to it, a thick book describing the history of the extinct Valmese desert nation of Aelburh; behind the books a matched set of sword, lance and axe apparently forged from the scales of a dragon named Askr; an odd looking tome from Tellius titled ‘Thani’. So much history, so much information, and Robin regretfully had no time to truly soak it all in.

As he progressed further through the crystals Robin began to feel a strange pressure behind his eyes. Blinking a few times he put it out of his mind, thinking it was just another side effect of Grima’s presence in this world.

The crystals began to thin out as he neared the wall of the cavern, the lighting becoming dimmer. Robin squinted as he moved through the oppressive gloom and stumbled on the uneven ground, reaching out to steady himself on the nearby wall.

As soon as his fingers made contact Robin felt a pulse through the hard stone and pulled back, realizing he had found the source of the pressure behind his eyes.

He studied the wall, finding it was actually more of the stasis crystal. Inside was a skeleton of what appeared to be a dragon. But it was unlike any dragon he had ever seen. Where Tiki, Nowi, Nah and Fae were long and lithe, with great wings that could easily carry them through the sky, this creature had once been squat and broad. A thicker muzzle than the Divine Dragons housed jagged teeth and fangs, it’s wing-bones small and almost vestigial-looking.

“What is this?” Robin asked softly.

“I’m blind, remember?” Bantu scoffed.

“It’s a dragon’s skeleton,” Robin said, rolling his eyes. “But it looks… odd. Different.”

“Ah. That,” Bantu said dismissively. “Once there were many different dragon tribes, and we all looked as different as the different human tribes look to each other. This one is of the Earth Dragon Tribe, and was their leader.”

“What was his name?” Robin asked, leaning towards the crystal curiously.

“I’m sure you’ve heard it before,” Bantu said, grinning beneath his heavy hood. “In life, he was known as Medeus. Your kind labeled him as the first Dark Dragon.”

Robin flinched back as if the crystal were aflame, recoiling as he turned to gape at Bantu.

“You kept the first Dark Dragon’s skeleton like a trophy!?” he hissed.

Bantu chuckled, shaking his head.

“No, we imprisoned the bastard,” the dragon explained. “He’s still in there, just waiting for his chance to awaken again. As long as there’s some form of energy for him to feed off, Medeus can return. He already returned from the dead once, after all.”

“So he’s still… in there?” Robin asked. “Is he sentient? Is he… conscious?”

“I don’t know,” Bantu shrugged. “You would have to ask Gotoh. I just dust the place from time to time.”

Robin leaned forward again, staring into the empty eye sockets of Medeus’ skull. With a shudder, he couldn’t help but feel like the skull stared back.

“He’s our last resort,” Bantu went on. “The humans have one last plan. If that fails… Gotoh will let him loose. Hopefully he and Grima manage to kill each other.”

“Are things really so dire?” Robin asked, finally looking away from the skull.

“Fellspawn, this world is almost too far gone to be saved,” Bantu huffed, beginning to shuffle away.

Robin followed after him, easily catching up with the ancient and bowed dragon.

“Then why even try?” he asked. “Why collect all this stuff and make all the preparations? Why help us?”

“Because as much as I hate Medeus, I hate that little worm Grima more,” Bantu snapped.

The dragon suddenly stopped, Robin teetering precariously on his feet as he tried to halt his own forward momentum. The ancient heaved a long sigh, appearing to deflate beneath his threadbare red robes.

“Grima destroyed Naga,” Bantu said tiredly. “He single-handedly wiped out my entire race. He… killed Tiki. That poor, sweet little girl.”

Robin sucked in a breath, closing his eyes at the ache he felt in his heart. Bantu shifted beside him, chuckling sadly.

“Revenge, Fellspawn,” he said. “I help you, we help you, to spit in Grima’s eye one last time.”

Bantu seemed to regard Robin for a moment, his sightless eyes rising for the first time to actually point in the tactician’s direction. With a huff the old man dug around in his robes before producing a tear-shaped stone, perhaps the size of Robin’s fist, and pressing it into the surprised tactician’s hands.

“I don’t know what you are,” Bantu wheezed. “I don’t care. You say you want to kill Grima? Take this.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“My dearest treasure,” Bantu explained. “A dead dragonstone. When Naga was mortal, physical, she used two of these. One she gave to her daughter, Tiki. The other I kept as a keepsake of my old friend.”

Robin held the stone up to the dim light, marveling it at. Even in the weak lighting it seemed to glow, the smooth, tear-shaped stone reflecting the faint blue light and shimmering between silver, red and green so subtly Robin almost mistook it for a trick of the light. A small fraction of the divine dragon’s power still rested within the stone, and just holding it made the tactician feel at peace.

“I’m… honored,” he said slowly. “But why are you giving me this?”

Bantu sniffed, seeming to regard the tactician without looking at him.

“It is comforting to you, yes?” he asked.

“It is,” Robin admitted hesitantly.

“Then keep it,” Bantu nodded. “Let it bring you some comfort, as it has me for these past millennia. In my twilight years I find I have no further need for such simple comfort. Maybe it will help you figure out what, exactly, you are.”

Robin felt a small smile rise unbidden to his lips as he cradled the stone, holding it close to his chest. It did, indeed, give off an aura of contentment and peace, clearing his mind and making him feel stronger, as if Grima’s power had less of a hold over him.

“I think it just might,” Robin agreed, slipping the dragonstone into his pocket.

Or so he hoped as he returned to his bedroll, anyway.

* * *

 

The next ‘morning’ the Shepherds were urgently woken by a harried-looking Xane, the red-haired former dragon ushering them to the central chamber they had all come into. Fae stood waiting for them, an irate Simia standing not far from the dragon woman. The Deadlord calmed, though, when she spotted Robin, instantly drifting to her master’s side as the Shepherds took up positions around the manakete.

“What’s going on?” Sully asked groggily, still clearly waking up.

“Gotoh called,” Fae shrugged. “I know as much as you do. He promised he wouldn’t be long. If you have supplies, now is the time to eat. I doubt you will get the chance once Gotoh tells us what’s happening.”

“Do you guys have anything besides mushrooms?” Xane asked hopefully. “I’ll trade you?”

“I think I still have some wyvern treats,” Ricken offered tentatively. “That’s, uh, not offensive, is it?”

“Depends how bad they taste,” Xane grinned.

Slowly the Shepherds separated into their usual small groups, the sound of hushed conversation filling the cave as they did so. Robin watched Arya drift over to where Olivia was trying to assure Gaius that no, she did not in fact have any sugar stashed away like in the old days, and couldn’t help but smile. Olivia was easily one of the most approachable among the Shepherds, but it was still good to see the girl branching out and moving away from him and his group a little.

Satisfied that his student would be safe and occupied, Robin hobbled over to where Tharja was perched on a low rock, chewing on one of the pieces of dried mushroom Xane had supplied for them the night before.

“You look tired,” he commented lightly. “Trouble sleeping? Maybe get caught up in a good book?”

The Dark Mage gave him a weak glare from beneath her fringe before sighing and looking back down.

“I assure you, it was not a ‘good’ book,” she said sedately.

“That bad, huh?” Robin asked, concerned now.

“It was… illuminating,” Tharja admitted, sagging. “Fascinating. But dangerous. Gharnef’s reliance on the Darksphere always confused me in the legends. Now that I have seen Imhullu, now that I have studied it, it makes sense. The spell is just as cancerous as Grima’s essence is. It was never even meant to be used by humans, and it shows in the lack of wards and safeties. Yet for all that, it is still far more powerful than anything we have done in the last… thousand years, at least.”

Simia gave a low growl at Tharja’s casual mention of Grima’s name, but Robin silenced the Deadlord with a glance. The tactician moved to sit at her side, giving a tired sigh as he dropped down onto the rock next to Tharja. Simia moved automatically to hover at Robin’s shoulder, and, much as he wanted to, he didn’t have the energy to shoo her away.

“I’ll make some notes when we get back to our world,” the Dark Mage added. “Maybe between us we can make something… less damaging from it. Gods, I can only imagine what Gharnef actually looked like. Even with the Darksphere he would have been aged horribly by this spell…”

“You must be tired, you usually only ramble like this when you’re exhausted,” Robin said.

“Says the pot to the kettle,” Tharja huffed with a sideways glance.

“Hey, I always ramble,” Robin chuckled.

The two sat in companionable silence for a time, simply watching the other Shepherds interacting and relaxing in this brief respite before Robin spoke up again.

“Thank you for not saying anything about last night,” he said softly.

“It is not my place,” Tharja said, sounding tired. “I am curious how long you have known, though.”

Robin sighed through his nose, looking down at his injured hand.

“Since Emm was born,” he admitted. “I grew weaker. Almost like I had passed on the last of my own life to her.”

“Ever the poet. You know it doesn’t work that way,” Tharja said. “At least not without a very powerful curse.”

“I know,” Robin smirked, before sobering again. “But when we… when I killed Grima, I was supposed to die. That was a fact. I think I was just living off the reserves I had until Emm was born. Like my body couldn’t make any new energy, or something. I honestly don’t know. All the research I did, all the looking, the reading, revealed nothing. There’s no documented cases of someone, something, like me.”

“But that was scarcely more than a year,” Tharja muttered. “How have you lasted so…”

“I’ve been utilizing the mana in the air,” Robin admitted. “Like drawing it in for a spell. It’s why I get so tired in Plegia, and…”

“It’s why you’re so sick here,” Tharja said slowly, perking up as understanding dawned on her face. “You’re not dying because of Grima’s energy. You’re dying because you’re not absorbing Grima’s energy. That’s why it made you sick back in our own world. Because you instantly cut yourself off from any mana when you sensed it.”

Robin sighed again, seemingly sagging beneath a great weight.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Tharja persisted.

“You don’t know what it’s like, Tharja,” he whispered. “All that power. It’s… maddening. I can’t take what it does to me. How it makes me feel. Like my whole body, my whole being is aflame. I can’t do it.”

“It is your power, though,” Simia stated simply.

“I don’t recall you being a part of this conversation,” Robin snapped.

“She’s not wrong, loathe as I am to admit,” Tharja said. “As much as you may hate it, it is a part of you, and it always has been, apparently.”

“At what point did you start agreeing with the Risen over your old friend?” Robin asked, his eyes narrowing.

“When the Risen started making more sense,” Tharja countered. “And no, I cannot believe I just said that either.”

Before Robin could rebut there was a flash from the center of the chamber, and Gotoh reappeared with a large bundle of what appeared to be weapons at his feet. Their conversation cut short, Robin and Tharja both rose, joining the rest of the Shepherds as they all crowded around the ancient sage.

“Lord Gotoh, is something amiss?” Chrom asked.

“It appears we have run out of time, Awakener,” Gotoh said sadly. “I had a vision. Grima is returning to Archanea. We must act now, before he reaches Ylisse.”

A smattering of curses spread throughout the Shepherds, Chrom himself muttering something that would have made his wife slap him in the back of the head.

“Well, what’re we waiting for!?” Sully declared. “Let’s get going to Ylisse!”

“Even if you left now you would not arrive in time,” Fae pointed out bluntly.

“It’s better than sitting here in the dark waiting for the end!” Sully snapped.

Fae hissed, her eyes narrowing dangerously as she took a threatening step forward. “Impertinent human! How dare you!?”

“Fae, behave,” Xane sighed. “Human’s right.”

The manakete woman actually flinched, pointing a betrayed gaze on the shape shifter.

“What do we do?” Chrom asked, turning back to Gotoh. “You must have some sort of plan.”

“I do,” Gotoh sighed.

The ancient sage waved his hand through the air, displacing a small cloud of blue mist. As the mist settled on the ground shapes began to coalesce, until a series of weapons were lined up before the Shepherds.

“First, you will take these,” Gotoh declared. “These relics of the past still hold much power. They will serve you better than your current weapons, save Falchion, of course.”

Robin studied the weapons, recognition from his previous night’s wanderings settling in. Archanea’s three sacred weapons, Mercurius, Parthia and Gradivus. A long, heavy broadsword that Robin didn’t recognize. The original Excalibur tome. A thick dagger, easily the length of Robin’s forearm. An odd, fragile-looking staff with a diamond-shaped head. And…

“Imhullu,” Tharja breathed, stepping forward.

She looked back up at Gotoh, her unspoken question clear.

“The situation has changed,” the Sage said sadly. “I would not expose you to its darkness, Lady Mage, but if you are willing…”

Tharja nodded, stepping forward and reverently lifting the tome into her arms.

“The rest of you, make haste,” Gotoh said. “Time is short.”

Sully stomped forward first, lifting Gradivus without hesitation and testing the ancient spear’s heft in her hands. She nodded, and without a word rested it on her shoulder and moved aside.

“I’m guessing this one’s mine?” Ricken asked, retrieving the Excalibur tome. “It feels heavier than a usual tome. Also, feels kind of wasteful to only put one spell in one tome.”

“Quit complaining,” Sully called from the back of the group.

The thin mage offered a tired, apologetic shrug to Gotoh before moving aside.

“I think I’m good,” Gaius said, turning to move away.

As he did, the thief held up the darkly glittering form of Raziel, the dark-bladed dagger glinting in the gloom.

“Very well,” Gotoh nodded with a knowing smile beneath his beard.

Olivia meekly stepped forward, looking at the weapons with a blank expression. She looked up, brow crinkling in confusion.

“You are more than worthy, child,” Gotoh chuckled. “Mercurius would suit you well, do you not think?”

Olivia’s eyes widened and she stepped forward, picking up the sword as if afraid she would break it.

“It feels… light,” she said softly.

“Because the blade has judged you, and found you worthy,” Gotoh said with a paternal smile.

Olivia nodded, holding the sword tightly and retreating.

Xane surprised them by stepping forward next, picking up the bow Parthia.

“Once I’m away from here it’ll be a lot harder to transform,” he explained with a wink. “Figure I can still help with this.”

“Can you even shoot?” Fae asked, deadpan.

“Well, we’ll find out, won’t we?” Xane laughed.

Gotoh smiled, turning to Owain.

“Child of Naga, step forward,” he intoned.

Owain, oddly silent for once, took a few steps towards the dragon sage. Gotoh indicated the longsword Robin didn’t recognize, and Owain knelt to retrieve it.

“This weapon is the sister blade to Ylisse’s Falchion,” Gotoh explained. “Made from another of Naga’s fangs, the children of Duma in Valentia also named the sword Falchion. While not as powerful as the Awakener’s sword, it should still prove a mighty boon.”

Owain froze in place just before his fingers brushed the sword’s hilt, his eyes widening. With an almost audible gulp he took the sword and drew it forth from its sheathe, breathing a small sigh of relief before returning it to the sheathe.

“I will treasure it,” Owain said reverently.

“Wow, you shocked him silent,” Chrom laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him speechless before!”

Owain stumbled, blushing and glaring at the laughing Exalt as a small ripple of laughter filled the chamber.

“Uncle Chrom! Please don’t ruin this moment for me!” Owain moaned.

Chrom chuckled a little more, raising his hands and grinning as Owain slunk away. Maribelle shook her head, a small smile on her face as she stepped forward and lifted the staff. Twin red ribbons fell down from the head of the staff, and as she turned it over in her hands she gave a small nod.

“I know this staff,” she said. “From the scriptures in the Naganite Church. This is the Aum Staff. It is said to have the power to raise the dead.”

“To a certain extent, yes,” Gotoh nodded. “It would not, for example, return Marth to life. But if one falls on the battlefield, you could heal their wounds and return them to life. You can also use it to heal, as you would any other staff.”

“I will show it the proper care and respect, Lord Gotoh,” Maribelle said.

The noblewoman was already wrapping the ribbons securely around the haft of the staff as she retreated, leaving only Chrom, Robin, Say’ri and Arya before the Sage now.

“I have but one more boon,” Gotoh said gravely.

“I’m guessing it’s not for me,” Chrom said, patting the Falchion at his hip. “This is really all I need.”

“Aye, as this Amatsu is all I require,” Say’ri said, indicating the katana she wore.

Gotoh smiled again, nodding as he turned to Robin and Arya.

“This last gift is called Baselard,” the Sage explained. “An ancient dagger from Tellius, wielded thousands of years ago against the Mad God, Ashera, blessed by the Goddess of Chaos, Yune. I gift it to you, child.”

Arya watched impassively for another few moments until she realized that everyone was looking at her. She instantly went pale, taking a step back and clearly fighting the instinct to bolt as she stammered.

“M-m-me!?” she almost screamed. “Why not Robin? H-he-he…”

“Can’t wield it anyway,” the tactician shrugged, holding up his ruined hand. “Besides. I like the knife I’ve got.”

“Touched as he is by Grima’s taint, the Fellblood cannot wield any of these sacred weapons,” Gotoh explained. “You, though, require something that will injure even the strongest of Risen.”

“But I’m not… I… I c-can’t…” Arya mumbled, looking down.

Robin rolled his eyes, placing a hand on her shoulder and bending down to her level.

“Consider it putting my mind at ease, then,” he said. “I can’t protect you like this, so you’ll need something to do it for me.”

Arya studied him for a moment before nodding and stepping forward to pick up the knife. She hesitated for only a moment before gripping the dagger and rising. She held the weapon as if she had never held one before, looking to Robin. He gave her an encouraging nod, and Arya practically scurried over to hide in his shadow, already fiddling to attach the ancient weapon to her belt.

“So, what’s the second part of the plan?” Chrom asked.

Gotoh’s smile dropped and he seemed to take a long breath before speaking again.

“As I said, events have already begun to progress,” the Sage explained. “In my vision I saw the children of the Shepherds captured, hunted and run to ground. These events are taking place, even as we speak.”

A collective gasp passed through the room, no one even daring to breathe at the news.

“If you act now, you may yet save them,” Gotoh went on. “I can use the last of my power to bring you to them, and then to Ylisse, where you will have to face Grima once more.”

“Bring it on,” Sully growled.

“Yeah, we did it once,” Ricken agreed.

“You’re all going to die,” Simia droned pessimistically.

“We will succeed,” Chrom said. “Gotoh. Waste no more time. We’re ready.”

The Sage nodded, favoring the Exalt with a fatherly smile.

“Very well, Awakener. I bid you luck, and I bid you farewell.”

Then, much as before, the world seemed to shift and distend around them as the Shepherds were teleported away, leaving the last home of the divine dragons almost empty, save for one final, lonely figure. Bantu glanced up at the sound of displacing air, the familiar little pop of air rushing to fill the void that the teleportation spell left. A small, lopsided grin rose to his face as he slowly climbed to his feet from where he had been sitting, deciding to dust the relics one final time.

* * *

 

Sitting with her arms crossed, Idallia impatiently tapped one foot against the dirty floor of the mostly-whole building she and the Shepherds had been led to. Galle watched her with a morbid fascination, playing their arrival over and over in his head and being silently grateful it had been her, not him, that had attacked the local envoy. However, not all of them were extending the Ylissean-born Khan that same courtesy.

“I cannot believe you just out and decked him,” Basilio snickered for the umpteenth time.

Idallia sighed, slumping a little in her chair.

They were arranged sitting and standing around a small table, Cherche, Vaike and Basilio sitting while Cordelia and Galle stood to one side. Ita was sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall next to where Galle leaned behind them, but Cordelia stood at a perfect parade rest, eying the Khans seriously.

“This could very well jeopardize our task here,” the Wing Commander said. “We are lucky that the local forces accepted that we are separate to the refugees, but-”

“It was a normal reaction,” Ita cut in brusquely. “He deserved it.”

“That man is not the Maris you know,” Cordelia bristled. “He is a different, parallel version, much like how the Severa you know is different to my own daughter.”

“Well, perhaps different in age,” Cherche chuckled softly, earning a smirk from Vaike.

“I still think he deserved it,” Ita huffed.

“It was somewhat satisfying to watch,” Galle admitted.

“Yeah, but you’re biased,” Vaike pointed out.

 Galle scoffed and rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and leaning defiantly back in his chair. He was wary of putting too much weight on the back, though, as the chair creaked dangerously every time he moved.

The small shack they had been led to in the village was clearly the Ylissean forces’ command center. Maps and missives had been left lying out all over the table, and if Galle hadn’t known for a fact that the Risen weren’t smart enough to make use of such information he would have already launched into a tirade about how stupid they were being. The rest of the building was unremarkable; a single room, occupied by a table, numerous chairs and an empty and cold hearth against one wall. Dust coated everything, even the maps, making Galle wonder how out of date they were. The Ylisseans hadn’t even bothered posting a single guard out front, though, making Galle reassess their strength and unit dispositions.

As the older Shepherds squabbled among themselves over what to do now, Galle simply sat back next to Femi and watched the proceedings. The problem here was that Cordelia was Wing Commander of the Pegasus Knights, Vaike was Captain of the Shepherds, Cherche was a Duchess, and Basilio and Idallia were Khans. Each of them was used to giving orders and not being questioned. It was a melting pot, having all these personalities in a room together and trying to decide on a course of action. Ita remained silent, too, though, grinning and clearly enjoying watching the manspawn fight amongst themselves.

Galle was saved from interjecting his own voice of reason into the mix when Helia strode through the doorway with the parallel Maris at her shoulder, the tall Ylissean casting his ‘sister’ an odd look before addressing the assembled Shepherds.

“I’m not going to lie, all this time travel and magic stuff is way above my pay grade,” the soldier said. “Lady Helia has asked to be escorted to the Exalt to plead her people’s case. I’m taking you lot, too.”

There was a moment of silence when everyone looked at Helia. The girl imperceptibly blushed, clasping her hands behind her back.

“Well, that solves that,” Vaike shrugged.

Cordelia let out a sigh, holding her slim fingers to her temple as she nodded. Basilio just guffawed, slapping Idallia on the back. For her part, the Ylissean Khan alternated between glaring at the Feroxi man and the reflection of her brother.

“That is very fortuitous, and generous on your part, Sir Maris,” Cherche said diplomatically.

Ita growled under her breath, but didn’t say anything.

“Well. Mount up, we’re leaving immediately,” Maris declared.

The soldier surveyed the assembled Shepherds one last time, his gaze lingering on a disgruntled Idallia again, before striding away and leaving them alone with Helia.

“This is going to get so weird,” Galle sighed.

“This has been weird since I joined up with you,” Femi muttered darkly in response.

“You get used to the weirdness,” Vaike chuckled. “Tends to follow Robin around like a bad stink.”

Galle and Femi just sighed and deflated, prompting a smattering of grins and chuckles from around the room.

* * *

 

As it turned out, all of the Valmese soldiers were marching to Ylisse to join the resistance groups, too. Helia had offered her men freely, and now the Shepherds marched at the head of a column of some two hundred men at arms, heading for Ylisstol.

From Southtown it was usually only a trip of about two or three days on foot to Ylisstol along the Southern Highway, through the forests and fields that typified Ylissean wilderness. However, this time the march took nearly a week, as far as Galle could tell with the weak and sporadic light-cycles. A week spent marching through a blasted and dead landscape that honestly made the young tactician pine for his own desolate homeland. At least in Plegia the dessert still felt alive, to a degree. Here it was just ashen emptiness as far as the eye could see, almost as bad as Valm had been.

Charred, dead trees stuck up from blackened soil in random clusters along the sides of the road. The ashen dust wasn’t as bad as it had been in Valm, but the Ylissean topsoil was little better than sand to Galle’s eye. Not once did he see any sign of animals other than the Ylisseans. Morale among the Valmese men plummeted after the first day, their progress slowing to almost a crawl.

“The highways were hit almost as bad as the cities,” Maris had explained after two days of awkward silence. “Don’t worry, we still have some farmland in the east and the northeast corner, but even that’s beginning to get harder to grow things in.”

Galle and Helia had endeavored to spread this information to the tired soldiers, and it did help a little.

Maris had been something of an oddity during their journey. The former cavalryman had been nothing but polite and courteous to the Shepherds and Valmese, while simultaneously avoiding Idallia like the plague. It had concerned him at first, but after a few days Galle had decided that this version of Maris was stable enough, and he would leave the siblings work their own issues out.

Galle wasn’t afraid to admit that when the walls of Ylisstol began to coalesce in the distant gloom towards the end of the week that he felt a sense of relief.

Ylisstol was a city that had outgrown its own walls twice in its lifespan. The inner tier, where the Palace and important cathedrals for the Naganite worshippers were, was colloquially known as the ‘Old City’. The middle tier, safely ensconced behind the large white stone walls, was uninventively known as the ‘Middle City’. The outer bergs were the newest additions to the city, and were where the lower-class residents of Ylisstol’s capital made their homes. No slums, not in the shadow of the Exalt’s seat of power, but still not as sturdily built as the other city tiers; buildings of wood and straw occasionally over stone foundations, more often than not simply hard-packed dirt. It was the one part of Ylisstol that Galle had actually felt even a remote level of comfort in.

It admittedly hurt him, somewhat, to see it burned to the ground like this as the Shepherds and the Valmese soldiers passed through it.

The once orderly streets had been reduced to rutted, winding, cratered wrecks surrounded on all sides by shanty dwellings. The dwellings were, in some places, little more than old canvas strung up between ruins. There were people everywhere, too, simply sitting and watching their progress with haunted eyes, as if they had given up hope a long time ago. He saw people from both Ylisse and Regna Ferox, but there was no Plegian representation among the refugees. Beside him Helia looked stricken, watching the Ylisseans with wet eyes.

“This is… Ylisstol?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper. “This is no different than Valm. We came all this way just to continue to suffer and waste away?”

Galle rolled his eyes, sighing.

“Maybe,” he agreed. “But you should know by now that Ylisseans and Grima are like oil and water. If anyone’s gonna beat him, they’ll be here. So… I don’t know, buck up! Or something.”

Femi snorted from his other side, shaking her head. Galle turned to glare, noticing that Vaike and Basilio were both grinning down at him as well.

“You are so bad at that,” the young Dark Mage chuckled.

“Hey, punching things and tactics, that’s what I do,” Galle defended, blushing a little. “You’ll have to forgive me for not being the inspiring speaker that Robin is.”

“You sure you’re one of his students?” Vaike asked.

There was another round of weak laughter as Galle sighed and blushed a little deeper. Helia, though, smiled and nodded gratefully, which only served to further embarrass Galle.

Maris led them to what he assured the group was a muster point, leaving directions with the local men to get the Valmese fed and supplied however they could, before continuing to lead the Shepherds into the ruined city. Helia joined them, intent on presenting herself to the Ylissean leaders, and Victor followed as a sort of honor guard. It was a pathetic attempt, but really that was the Valmese survivors to the letter; fortunately, they rather fit in with the Ylisseans in their current state.

Inside Ylisstol’s walls wasn’t much better than outside to Galle’s eye. He had only been to Ylisstol a handful of times, but it was as if the air itself was different here. Everywhere he looked the young tactician could see evidence of prolonged fighting. Windows and doors were hastily boarded up, damaged and crumbling buildings abandoned as those that still stood whole were crowded by desperate Ylisseans. The stones that had once proudly paved the city’s streets were cracked and broken, large sections of Ylisstol’s streets reduced to foul-smelling mud. At least there still appeared to be water here, although Galle wasn’t sure he trusted it any more than he had what they had found in Valm. Greasy black smoke hung heavy in the air, a layer of grime covering the bright white stone and plaster that the city had been known for.

Everything had the stink of decay and rot hanging over it. The once great city had long ago breathed its last, and the human parasites that made it their home just refused to admit it.

“It pains me to see our home like this,” Cordelia commented sadly as they walked.

“You should have seen it right after we retook it,” Maris said over one armored shoulder at the head of the group. “It took us weeks just to clear the bodies. I think there’s still some places in the outer city that they haven’t gotten to.”

“You mean Ylisstol actually fell?” Vaike asked in shock.

“Yeah,” Maris sighed, going back to staring straight ahead. “Those were dark times. Exalt Lissa did what she could, but… she was a Cleric, a Priestess, not a warrior. It wasn’t until Exalt Lucina took the crown that we managed to retake the city.”

The Shepherds exchanged glances, most of them looking exceptionally uncomfortable.

“How long ago did… Exalt Lissa die?” Cherche asked hesitantly.

“A year, maybe more,” Maris shrugged. “It gets hard to tell time. All the days blend together.”

“How’d she bite it?” Vaike asked gruffly.

Maris snorted. “One of the Deadlords, powerful Risen. Heard of them?”

“Killed them all in our own world,” Vaike scoffed.

“I killed two,” Basilio piped up.

“Really?” Idallia asked with an exasperated sigh.

“Just saying,” Basilio huffed.

Maris chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, these ones are brutal. Just one tore our camp up all on its own. And, like I said, Exalt Lissa was a healer, not a fighter. She didn’t stand a chance. In all the time she was in charge I don’t even think she even tried to wield Falchion.”

“Should you be speaking so disrespectfully of your fallen Exalt?” Cordelia asked, somewhat indignantly.

“Excuse me, Lady Knight, but I was in that camp when it was attacked,” Maris said tiredly. “We lost a lot of good men trying to defend Lady Lissa. At least Exalt Lucina can fight with us.”

“Exalt Lucina rules now, then?” Helia asked curiously.

“Yeah, she’s the one I’m taking you to meet,” Maris nodded.

The Palace itself was one of the buildings that seemed to have had the most effort put into restoring it. New stones had been stacked up to fill large holes in the walls, piles of neatly cut stones awaiting placement still sitting off to one side. Those holes yet to be patched still had signs of hasty coverings, tarps and boards of salvaged timber dotting the outer walls and the walls of the palace itself. A few workers were milling about, all of whom stopped to watch the Shepherds with quiet, blank stares that Galle found incredibly unnerving.

They found the interior of the palace a darkened hive of activity, precious torches spread few and far between as the remaining Ylissean and Feroxi commanders desperately tried to organize the last of their armies. Even from a glance Galle could tell it wasn’t going well.

Inside the palace seemed bare, to Galle. Sterile, as if people hadn’t lived in it in years. Like an old tomb. There was little of the excess finery that he had become accustomed to associating with royalty; no lush carpets, no portraits or statues, only bare stone and basic furniture. Weapons in racks were spaced evenly throughout the halls, though, and in many open rooms Galle spotted armor stands and shields, as well as more spare weapons. Soldiers milled about everywhere, here, and though muted there was still energy, still life within these halls. It was less a palace and more another fortress.

Walls inside the palace, too, showed more signs of hastily repaired damage. Although the locals had tried, it was easy to spot the rushed and sub-par work they had done repairing walls and doors inside the massive building. Many rooms sat unused, and many more still sported damaged walls and broken doors as the defenders focused on more important areas.

“Never thought I’d be unhappy to see the Ylisstol palace look so much like a fortress,” Basilio grunted.

“Where is the exalt?” Cordelia asked, her voice tight.

“First thing they did was move the throne room,” Maris explained. “It’s in the back now, not much further.”

“You are awfully free about the information you share,” Galle pointed out, surprising himself by speaking directly to Maris for the first time.

This drew a tired chuckle from the Ylissean, who shook his head.

“I remember operational security before things went to hell,” he said over one armored shoulder. “The only people that would use any of this information against us were the Grimleal, and trust me when I say that they do not exist anymore.”

Maris paused a moment, continuing to walk as he glanced further over his shoulder at Galle. Their eyes met, and the Plegian frowned as the older man smirked at him.

“You’re Plegian, right?” Maris asked. “You and your mage friend? First ones I’ve seen in nearly a decade. You might want to keep it quiet, though. People aren’t very fond of your kind here.”

“Like you?” Galle ground out dangerously.

Maris barked a laugh, looking forward again.

“Of course not!” the big Ylissean chuckled. “Any breathing body between us and the Risen is a good body! I don’t care if you’re from the moon! We’re all in this together now. It’s just that when someone mentions anything about Plegia these days it’s usually accompanied with a curse.”

“You have become awfully chatty,” Idallia commented.

Maris glanced at her and shrugged, his grin diminishing somewhat as he remained silent. The mood became awkward after that, but fortunately they arrived at a set of double doors with the first guards that Galle had seen since arriving.

“Maris,” one of the guards nodded. “Go ahead. The Exalt is waiting for you.”

They were ushered into the room, the guards warily eying the newcomers as they passed and closing the heavy doors behind them. Victor bowed low to Helia, remaining with the guards outside. Maris stood aside as they entered, ushering the group inside. Helia strode forward first, Vaike and Cherche hanging back with Galle, Ita and Femi as they allowed Cordelia and the Khans to present themselves first.

The room itself was nothing special, simply a large stone room with a few window slits near the ceiling to cycle air. There were no actual windows, being in the interior of the palace, but light was cast by two large glowing braziers that also made the space comfortably warm. A single door, off to the side, led deeper into the palace. Opposite the door was a simple wooden throne, again betraying Galle’s expectations of royal standards, beneath a tattered House Ylisse banner.

Sitting in the throne, dirty, disheveled but still regal and commanding, was the parallel Lucina.

“I bid you welcome, Helia of Valm, and…” Lucina said, standing and trailing off.

The group stopped awkwardly before the Exalt as the younger woman froze up, her eyes widening as she cast her gaze over the assembled Shepherds.

“Hello, Princess Lucina,” Cordelia said with a kind smile. “Although I suppose it is Exalt Lucina here, yes? I was so sorry to hear of the loss of your parents.”

“Heya, kid,” Vaike greeted, stepping forward with his usual bluster. “Teach is glad to see ya grew up right.”

Cherche remained silent, merely smiling and giving her a small nod.

Basilio’s soft, rumbling chuckle surprised them all when the big Khan stepped forward, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly.

“You probably don’t even recognize me as such an old fart,” the big Khan said. “I’m Basilio. An old friend of your father’s.”

“This… I…” Lucina stammered for a moment before rallying. “How is this possible? You are all dead!”

“Parallel dimensions,” Galle supplied, before adding “Apparently. It’s confusing and we don’t quite understand it, but here we are.”

“I did try to warn you, Lady Exalt,” Maris said from the back of the room.

“Yes, thank you Maris,” Lucina nodded absently, still clearly shaken. “I had thought you spoke of my own comrades when your message said ‘Shepherds’, though.”

“Still no word, Lady Exalt,” Maris said regretfully.

“I see,” Lucina said, sinking back onto her throne. “This is… a very large shock. I suppose this must also come as a surprise to you as well?”

“I think we may have it easier,” Cordelia said. “We have already met an adult version of you, and all the others, in our own world.”

Lucina froze again at this, her eyes widening as she slowly looked up at the Wing Commander.

“Then… in another world… it worked?” she asked in a small voice. “Naga’s spell sent us back?”

“Yes,” Cordelia nodded. “And with your help we were able to defeat Grima.”

“So, we figure we oughtta return the favor this time,” Vaike said, flexing his bicep for good measure.

“I feel like they’ve forgotten you’re here,” Galle muttered to Helia.

“It is fine,” the Valmese woman chuckled. “I can wait. This seems important.”

Lucina straightened, rising again and facing Helia with an embarrassed expression.

“Please, forgive me, Lady Helia, I meant no disrespect,” she said quickly.

“No, please ignore Galle,” Helia laughed.

“Everybody else does,” Femi added with a smirk.

“Really?” the tactician deadpanned.

“I understand this is much to take in,” Helia continued, trying to ignore the two Plegians. “I have already had time to come to terms with this. If it helps, I believe their tale, Exalt Lucina.”

Lucina merely nodded, reaching out to steady herself against the throne again. Galle had never seen his teacher look so shaken before. Of course, he reminded himself, this wasn’t his teacher but rather a parallel version of her. This Lucina was far thinner, and while she still maintained her regal aura there was a feeling of power that she was missing, a lack of that hard-earned strength that their own world’s Lucina had.

Still, though, the similarities were plain to see as this Lucina took a deep breath and composed herself.

“I would extend you all my hospitality, and the hospitality of my nation,” she said. “I also ask, please lend me your strength.”

“We already said we would, girl,” Basilio rumbled with a small smile.

The others all stepped forward, adding their voices of assent, but Galle stopped paying attention. Instead he found himself distracted by an odd, itching in the back of his mind. Something was playing with his magical senses, which he had often found was never a good thing. Behind him Ita gave a small growl, her ears flattening atop her head.

“Do you feel it, too?” Femi asked in a small voice.

“Whatever it is, it’s not a good thing,” Galle nodded, stepping forward. “Not that this isn’t heartwarming and uplifting and all that, but something’s coming.”

The Shepherds stopped to look at the Plegian tactician, confusion on every face except for Lucina’s blank expression. The Exalt’s eyes slowly widened, though, just as the side door opened with a clatter and a green-haired manakete burst in in a panic.

“Lucina! He’s coming!” the manakete all but screamed.

“Lady Tiki?” Cordelia asked in confusion.

“Yes, I… Cordelia?” Tiki said, stopping in surprise.

“Later!” Galle snapped. “Who’s coming? Please don’t say Grima.”

Tiki shook her head, giving the Plegian boy a sad look.

“I’m afraid so,” she said softly. “He returns from Tellius. I’m sorry, Lucina. I thought we had more time.”

“Damnation,” Lucina sighed, sagging for a moment before rallying. “Maris! Call the soldiers to arms! We will not go quietly into the-”

Her orders were cut off as the palace shook, a massive crash throwing those assembled from their feet. Galle fell hard on his side, mashing his shoulder into the stone floor at an awkward angle as another body landed atop him and drove the air from his lungs. He managed not to strike his head, though, and was back up almost as fast as Lucina was, even pulling Femi up with him.

“To arms!” the Exalt shouted, throwing the doors to the chamber wide. “To arms, brave men and women of Ylisse! Grima comes! He will not find us easy prey! To your stations! You know your positions!”

The Shepherds slowly returned to their feet, Galle holding a disoriented Femi’s shoulder as he tried to ignore the dust raining down on them.

“She wasn’t kidding about being out of time,” he coughed.

Galle squinted in the sudden gloom, the overturned braziers having gone out. None of the Shepherds looked particularly injured, which was good. Nearby a terrified Helia was shaking, and Galle released Femi to move to the Valmese girl.

“Helia! Get a grip!” he hissed, coughing again on the dust.

“Is anyone hurt!?” Maris called over the din. “Lady Tiki? Are you well?”

“I’m fine!” Tiki called from beside the throne.

“Lady Helia!” Victor called shakily. “Lady Helia, are you okay!?”

“She’s fine!” Galle answered. “A little shaken, but fine!”

“What just hit us?” Basilio growled. “The whole palace-”

There was another horrible rumbling crash, the ground shaking less this time as the sound lingered. Galle realized, with a cold feeling of fear, that it was the sound of collapsing stone and masonry.

“What the hell is going on!?” he snapped to no one in particular.

“Lucina?” Tiki called. “Where is Lucina!?”

“Exalt Lucina!?” Maris called.

The room shook again, and this time with the doors open the occupants could hear the screaming from outside. Maris staggered his way across the room, reaching down to pull Idallia up without even looking as he continued to search for Lucina. The Ylissean Khan offered a surprised, muted thanks that Maris apparently didn’t even hear.

“We have to find her!” Tiki cried, close to hysterics.

“If she’s anything like her father, we all know exactly where she’ll be,” Basilio said.

“Yeah, right in the middle of things!” Vaike added with an excited grin.

Galle groaned, stepping back from Helia as Victor rushed into the room.

“It just never ends with you people,” the Plegian tactician groaned, running a hand through his hair.

Tiki’s voice cut through the clamor, the Divine Dragon standing tall in the doorway even as the last of the Shepherds struggled to right themselves.

“Those of you who would fight, follow me,” she said, before disappearing into the hallway.

Basilio, Vaike and Ita didn’t hesitate, following after her. Maris cast Idallia one last glance before doing the same, the Ylissean Khan’s expression darkening as he did.

“Stay here!” Cordelia told Helia, the younger girl clearly terrified.

Then she and Cordelia followed the others into the hall. The building shook again, a piercing roar following the tremor this time that made Helia scream and drop to her knees.

“Galle-” Femi started.

“I know!” he snapped, before sighing. “Idallia, stay with the girl! Femi, let’s go!”

Galle led the young mage into the hall and back around the corner, hesitating before plunging into the sudden explosion of activity in the adjoining hall. He could see that the Great Hall was open to the air now, massive gouges carved into the stone floor from claws twice as long as Galle was tall. Soldiers and important refugees were running around everywhere, panic and disorder evident in the air. Across the hall, near the great doors back outside, Galle caught a glimpse of the tip of Cordelia’s lance above the crowd, and with another low groan he reached back and grabbed Femi’s hand.

“Don’t get separated, I’m not going back into this mess to find you,” he warned.

Femi gave him a weak grin as she tightly gripped his hand.

“I’m telling Mari,” she teased.

Galle snorted, shaking his head and plunging them into the panicked crowd. For all her talk, he could feel Femi trembling through his hold on her hand, could hear the tremor in her voice when she had tried to tease him. Not that Galle could really blame her when he felt exactly the same way, but he was focusing on his irritation at the whole situation to remain grounded and focused.

The pair were jostled badly by the panicked crowd, Femi crying out as she was trod of numerous times during their journey, but Galle pressed forward. He pushed through the bodies, occasionally shoving aside the simpering morons that were standing around and getting in the way of the people actually trying to help. Eventually, though, the crowd thinned, and the pair emerged onto the steps of the Ylisstol Palace where the others were waiting.

And there, standing before the palace with wings outstretched and six-eyed head held high, was the true form of Grima.

“We should have stayed inside,” Femi moaned, gripping Galle’s hand even tighter.

For once, the Plegian boy realized he had no sarcastic remark to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARGH! I keep forgetting to update my stories on this site! I'm so sorry! Anyway, we're into the home stretch now with this story! Thanks to everyone who's kept reading it!  
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> There’s a Discord channel you can join to chat, too! It’s pretty… uh… well, chaotic sometimes, but it’s hella fun.   
> And don’t forget the Invisible Ties Audio Drama! I’m the voice of Robin, check us out on YouTube!  
> Check it all out, links are all on my bio page!


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